


Fruit Of The Poison Tree

by GilShalos1



Series: Consensus Ad Idem [6]
Category: Law & Order
Genre: Angst, Complete, Courtroom Drama, Crimes & Criminals, Detectives, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Legal Drama, Mild Language, Romance, Sexual Content, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-10-27
Updated: 2016-10-27
Packaged: 2018-08-27 10:31:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 48
Words: 101,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8398159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GilShalos1/pseuds/GilShalos1
Summary: Should the sins of the father be visited on the son? For Jack McCoy, that question becomes more than academic theology. When someone's future is in the balance, the answer lies in uncovering the secrets of the past.





	1. Impervious

**Author's Note:**

> If you read this and think at the beginning that there is some out-of-character behavior, I hope you will give me the benefit of the doubt and stick with it. I promise, everything will be explained by the end.
> 
> I am not NY native or indeed an American, as my woefully inadequate knowledge of NY geography and the American legal system makes perfectly clear! I do, however, love Law and Order. Here, we get the episodes years late and often out of order, which has led to my long-standing confusion between who is in the show when and why and how old they are. My fannish imagination therefore has its own chronology, which differs from the show's canon in only three substantial ways: Lennie Briscoe didn't retire; Jack McCoy was snap-frozen ten years ago (since that's the age he is in the reruns that are all our free-to-air channels see fit to give us); and my series kicks off at the beginning of series seventeen, so it is substantially AU to everything from then on.

_Office of EADA Jack McCoy_

_10_ _th_ _Floor_

_One Hogan Place_

_7 pm Thursday May 3_ _rd_ _2007_

* * *

McCoy rubbed his hand over his eyes, unreasonably tired given how early it was. "Have you got the witness statements on Licardi?" he asked Regan.

"Right here." Regan leaned across his desk to hand the file to him. "You want to look at the post-it flags, they're the inconsistencies."

McCoy flipped the file open and began to read. "Good," he said after a moment. "Excellent, in fact. Where did you dig up this hawker?"

"Thank Ed Green's instincts for that," Regan said, smiling at the compliment.

"Puts Licardi at the scene," McCoy said, closing the file and handing it back. "Get his lawyer in here tomorrow and let's see if we can get him to take a plea."

"You don't think we can get him on Murder Two?" Regan asked.

"It's still dicey without the gun. But no deal unless he gives us something."

"Okay." Regan looked down at the files in her lap. "That's it, I think."

"Amazing," McCoy said. "Seven o'clock and we're done for the day. Again."

"Fourth time this week," Regan said, smiling.

McCoy looked at the stack of files by his blotter. The two of them churned through more cases than anyone else on the floor, with less overtime. Their position at the head of the 10th floor conviction league was unassailable. _Not new for me._ He knew it was for Regan, knew she enjoyed being talked about as a kick-ass prosecutor, one half of the DA's crack team of McCoy and Markham. _She's learnt more about the law in the last six months than in all of law school_. But that wasn't what had made the difference – any one of the ADAs on the floor could match her for legal knowledge. _No,_ McCoy thought, _it's because Regan reads witness statements and police reports and sees weak points and inconsistencies like other people see full stops and capital letters._ By the time she brought a case to McCoy, trial ready, he had everything he needed to crack the defense like a rotten walnut. It wasn't police thinking, exactly – they had detectives and DA's investigators for that. _Case building_ , McCoy thought, as Regan tucked her files under her arm and turned to the door. _Not the law, not the detecting – making our case and destroying theirs._

It more than made up for the fact that she needed to ask his guidance on points of law and procedure far more often than any ADA he'd worked with before.

"Want to get a drink?" he asked before she could leave, standing and sauntering over to his clothes rack.

"Sure," Regan said, turning back. "There's a bunch of us going down to the Lord Roberts, why don't you join us?"

 _T_ _he definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again, expecting a different response._ This had to be the twentieth time he'd suggested to Regan that they get a drink, maybe discuss their most pressing trial over a meal, since Arthur Branch had read them both the riot act. Any hint of scandal, and Regan – compared to McCoy, a completely expendable employee – would find herself out of a job. She'd taken it much more seriously than McCoy had – a week after that meeting, McCoy had realized Regan was avoiding even riding alone in elevators with him, let alone any social contact. He dropped by Abbie Carmichael's for a meal – and Regan was out with friends. As for the possibility of the two of them having a drink without a chaperoning crowd of ADAs – _she's made that clear on more than one occasion it's out of the question._

"Thursday night drinks with the tenth floor wasn't what I had in mind," McCoy said.

"Jack…" Regan said, a hint of reproach in her voice.

He opened the side door that led to Colleen's desk, and beyond that, Arthur's office, and started to get changed behind it. "What, we can't be friends, now?"

"We can be friends at work," Regan said.

"Then let's have a drink _here_ ," McCoy said, pulling on his jeans.

"I'm due at the Lord Roberts. Come on," Regan said. "You should show your face there, anyway. All those ADAs worship at your feet – spend half-an-hour, make them feel special."

"Oh, they worship at my feet, do they?" McCoy said, reaching for his jacket. " _You_ seem to be over that."

"Well, what can I say," Regan said serenely, "I guess I'm impervious."

 _Impervious_. He could remember occasions when she hadn't been so impervious, could remember what her fingers felt like as she ran them through his hair, could remember when the catch of breath in her throat when he touched her proved she was anything _but_ impervious. Could remember, too, when he could have honestly said they were friends not just _at work_ but when the shadows cast by working in the criminal justice system turned into impenetrable darkness in the hours before dawn.

They knew each other's nightmares.

_Friends. At work._

"Fine," McCoy said. "The Lord Roberts. Nothing for Arthur to complain about in _that_ , is there?"

"Nothing at all," Regan agreed.

Bill Fitzgerald was catching the elevator at the same time, and Regan suggested the three of them split a cab. McCoy might have admired the dexterity with which she negotiated the logistics of making sure she was never alone with him, not for a minute, if he hadn't found it so irritating. _As if two people can't share an elevator or a taxi without there being a sex scandal_. How many times had he shared late-night take-away in the office with his assistant over the years? How many cab rides, working lunches, post-trial drinks, with Sally, Diane, Claire, with Abbie –

Honesty forced McCoy to admit that perhaps Regan's caution wasn't entirely disproportionate.

The _Lord Roberts_ wasn't crowded on a weeknight. There were already a few ADAs there – Qiao Chen from Rackets and Connie Rubirosa from Trials were arguing over the jukebox and McCoy recognized several faces in the knot of people by the pool tables.

Chen and Rubirosa reached a compromise and Chen pressed a button. McCoy slung his bag into the booth Fitzgerald had commandeered and turned to follow Regan to the bar.

"Mr. McCoy!"

McCoy turned back to see a small woman with auburn curls smiling up at him. After a second, memory supplied her name. _ADA Keri Dyson, Identity Theft_.

"Keri," he said, returned her smile. "How are you?"

"Great!" she said. "I was just going to the bar – can I get you a drink?"

"Let me get _you_ one," he said reflexively, regretted it when she blushed a little. Their paths had crossed from time to time since she'd started at the DA's Office a few years ago, and Keri had always paid him that little bit of extra attention that signaled _interest_. McCoy had never taken her up on the unspoken offer. Not that she was unattractive. _Quite the opposite_ , he thought, looking down at her wide brown eyes, at the way she filled out her suit. But he'd always felt there was something – something almost _predatory_ about her. He didn't have any objection to a woman taking the initiative, but …

But having made the offer, there was no graceful way for McCoy to get out of it. He extended his generosity to Fitzgerald and went to the bar for a scotch for himself and Fitzgerald and a cosmopolitan for Keri. When he came back she was perched in the booth, talking to the Trials ADA about a case she was working on – an extensive fraud that had left several people all but destitute. McCoy listened with half his attention, contributing his opinion when it seemed warranted, watching the pool game going on across the room. Michael Omardi from Fraud was cleaning up, playing with a clean finesse that indicated he hadn't spent all his university years in the library. Regan shook her head when the cue was offered to her, and Connie Rubirosa was coaxed into playing by a young man McCoy only vaguely recognized as a new Narcotics ADA. She was terrible, and he took every opportunity to correct her play, arms around her to show her how she should be holding the cue. Rubirosa didn't seem to mind, but her game didn't noticeably improve.

"Don't you think?" Keri asked.

McCoy scrambled for the thread of the conversation. "You might have a federal violation there. Have you talked to our colleagues in the Southern District?"

She gave him a brilliant smile and touched his arm. "That's exactly what I've been trying to tell our Bureau head, but he won't listen !" She took a sip of her drink, and then turned a little in her seat, the movement bringing her closer to him. "I love this song, don't you?"

Listening, McCoy could hear a woman's sultry voice crooning about wanting all, or nothing at all. "Doesn't sound like Sinatra," he quipped.

Keri smiled. "Diana Krall," she said. "I saw her play last year. _Half a love never appealed to me_." Her voice was soft but melodic. " _If your heart never could yield to me ... then I'd rather have nothing at all._ "

"Are we going to lose you to Broadway?" Fitzgerald teased.

Keri blushed. "Sorry," she said. "I just love this song."

"Don't be sorry," McCoy said, as on the jukebox Diana Krall told them all that _if it's love, there's no in between._ "Never apologize for enthusiasm. Life's boring without it."

She smiled gratefully. "Another drink? I'm buying, this time."

"Sure." McCoy slid out of the booth to let her up. Across the room the pool game had broken up. As the jukebox hummed into silence a few piano notes rose above the hum of voices and heads turned toward the old, slightly-out-of-tune upright in the corner of the room. As the first notes of 'All or nothing at all' drifted out, a brief parting in the crowd let McCoy see Qiao Chen, jacket off, at the keyboard. McCoy joined the other attorneys crowding around the piano as Chen picked up the tempo, giving the melody some swing, and then shifted to a ragtime version, earning a scatter of applause. _Wouldn't have thought he'd have it in him,_ McCoy thought,remembering thestitched-up young lawyer from the Firienze case, seeming completely consumed by his obsession with furthering his own career.

Chen grinned, his usually careful coiffure in slight disarray from the energy of his playing, wiped sweat from his face with his sleeve and segued into _Honeysuckle Rose,_ hammering out the stride chords,before finishing off with a quick verse about someone whose feet were too big.

Pounding out the final chords, he turned to Connie Rubirosa and caroled "Your pedal extremities are _obnoxious_!"

She laughed and swatted his shoulder playfully and Chen grinned up at her, played a final resounding chord, and swung around on the stool.

He saw McCoy and sobered instantly, reaching for his jacket. "Mr McCoy," he said stiffly. "I was just – " Hurriedly, he started to pull on his jacket, then raked his hair into place. "It was just – just a bit of _jazz_ , sir."

"Show a bit more _jazz_ in the office and you might find yourself moving up out of Rackets," McCoy said.

Chen stared at him, and then slowly slipped his jacket off again. "Yes, sir," he said thoughtfully.

"Play us another, Qiao," Omardi urged.

Chen flashed his quick grin again and turned back to the piano. "Here's one for our boss," he said slyly.

It took McCoy a moment to recognize the melody, but he caught on when Chen began to sing slightly off key: "Give them an act with lots of _flash_ in it – and the reaction will be passionate!"

"That's terrible, Qiao," Bill Fitzgerald said. "You couldn't carry a tune in a _bucket_!" He struck a pose beside the piano and picked up the verse. "How can they see with see-quiii-ns in their eee-yes?"

"That's a little unfair," Keri said beside McCoy, holding out a drink for him to take. "You're not like that."

"I'm choosing to take it as a compliment," McCoy said.

"Give 'em the old flim flam flummox," Fitzgerald and Chen chorused. "Throw 'em a fake and a finagle!"

McCoy took a sip of his drink as the ADAs watching the performance laughed, or tried not to – _depending on how scared they are of me_. The scotch tasted oddly salty and he pulled a face.

"Did I get the wrong thing?" Keri asked anxiously. "Scotch, right?"

"Right," McCoy said. He tasted the drink again. "Must have had sour-mix in the glass."

"Let me see," Keri said. She took the glass from his hand and sipped delicately as Chen and Fitzgerald wobbled out of key, declaiming _As long as you keep them way off balance, they'll never spot you've got no talent._ "Seems fine. Maybe you have too much sodium in your diet." She gave the glass back to him.

McCoy took a solid hit of the scotch. It still tasted salty to him but burned smooth down his throat, and he didn't want to insult Keri by telling her she clearly had no sense of taste.

Chen and Fitzgerald finished their duet and Chen shook his head when asked for another tune. "I think I've gone too far already," he said with a glance at McCoy, half-nervous, half-defiant. McCoy grinned back and raised his glass.

"Perhaps not _that_ much jazz," he said. "In the office."

Chen relaxed and smiled more openly.

McCoy turned away from the piano as the other prosecutors started to drift back to the pool table. He had to admit, Regan's suggestion had been a good one. The easy camaraderie of his colleagues, the atmosphere of the bar, had combined to make him feel more relaxed than he had for weeks. He finished his drink, watching Regan lean across the pool table, looking for her next shot. The light over the table was unforgivingly harsh on her lean face and angular figure. It suddenly seemed absurd to McCoy that he had spent weeks trying to persuade her to change her mind, to ignore Branch, to join him for a drink, a meal, in the hope they would lead to more. _The city is full of women._ _ **One Hogan Place**_ _is full of woman._

 _Many of them prettier than Regan, when it_ _comes down to it._

As if summoned by his thought, he felt a hand on his arm and looked down to see Keri watching him with a smile. The contrast with Regan couldn't have been stronger. Keri was all soft curves, curly auburn hair, dimpled chin, nicely rounded figure clearly discernible beneath her suit. She ran her hand along his arm and he felt her fingers as clearly as if she touched bare skin.

"Penny for them?" she said.

"I was just thinking that life is short," McCoy said. "Too short to waste time on – on hopeless causes."

"That's an _odd_ thought for one of us," Keri said, laughing. "Isn't the DA's Office the definition of a hopeless cause?"

He laughed down at her. _A pretty woman, a night out –_ he was filled with a sense of well-being. "And a penny for _your_ thoughts?"

"I was thinking we should have another drink," Keri said.

Her smile made him a little dizzy. The sudden surge of desire when she brushed against him as they went back to their table made him dizzier. Keri steadied him, laughing, holding his arm a little too long. "I'll be right back," she said, and went to the bar. McCoy watched the way the swing in her hips made her body move inside her clothes. On her way back with their drinks she caught him watching, smiled, and slipped into the seat next to him.

She leaned against him a little, clinking her glass against his. "Here's to the _Lord Roberts_ ," she said. McCoy was very aware of her thigh pressed against his beneath the table. He took a sip of his drink, unable to help glancing downward to see a hint of the swell of her breast, the edge of a lacy bra, as she leaned forward. Imagination supplied what the rest of her body would look like and his body responded immediately and forcefully, so forcefully he had to shift in his seat a little.

Keri caught the movement, glanced down and with the hint of a smile put her hand on his thigh.

Her touch burned and when she moved her hand a little, tracing circles on the fabric of his jeans he gasped.

"Why, Mr McCoy," Keri purred, her hand sliding higher. "I always thought we'd get along, but I didn't realize we'd like each other quite this much."

McCoy's mouth was too dry for words as her fingers fluttered over his fly. He took her wrist and moved her hand away, gulping more scotch to moisten his mouth. "I'm going to embarrass myself right here if you keep doing that."

"I wouldn't want you to be embarrassed," Keri said. She moved her hand to less acutely dangerous territory. McCoy slipped his arm around her waist as she leaned against him, feeling the soft swell of her hip beneath his hand. She sighed, and turned her face up to his. It was very easy – _and probably unwise_ – to bend his head and kiss her. McCoy didn't care how unwise it was to be kissing a junior ADA in a room full of colleagues. He wanted her more than he could remember ever wanting a woman and as their lips met his mind went blank of all thoughts of caution, wisdom, decorum. All he could think of was how soft her lips were, how sweet her mouth, how intoxicating the feel of her body pressed against his. He gather her more closely to him as she teased his lips with her tongue, each flickering touch sending and electric shock of lust running straight to his balls. His hand found her breast, as heavy and yielding as he had imagined, and she moaned a little against his lips, her hand tightening on his thigh.

A part of his mind was aware that they were coming close to a public indecency charge but it seemed a small price to pay to continue his delirious exploration of her body.

"We ought to get out of here," Keri said, lips brushing his.

"Absolutely," McCoy said hoarsely. When he tried to stand to follow her to the door the room spun around him and he steadied himself against the table. Keri laughed, and pulled his arm over her shoulders.

"Lean on me," she said. "I'll get you home."

McCoy glanced back as they reached the door. Regan had paused in her game of pool, and was watching them, her expression unreadable.

 _You had your chance_ , McCoy thought. Deliberately, he dropped his hand to Keri's backside and gave her an ostentatious squeeze before following her out into the dark.

* * *

.oOo.


	2. Precedent

The alarm drilled through McCoy's head like a jackhammer. He struggled to open his eyes, fumbling on the bedside table until he managed to knock the alarm onto the floor where it went on howling, only slightly muffled by being face-down on the carpet.

 _Oh god._ His head hurt. _Hurt is not a strong enough word._ The dull throbbing in his temples was not quite migraine quality, but it came close. _How much did I have to drink last night?_

McCoy forced himself to open his eyes and sat up. The movement made him aware of how nauseous he was and he bolted for the bathroom, reaching the basin just in time. The spasms of retching seemed to increase the pain in his head exponentially and when he could catch his breath he leaned against the bathroom counter, eyes closed and pulse racing, willing the pounding in his skull to subside.

 _God, how much_ _ **did**_ _I have to drink last night_ , he thought.

He couldn't remember.

Sweat broke out on his face. He couldn't remember.

Not, maybe four, maybe five if you count the half-glass of wine that was left in the bottle at the end of the meal can't remember, but –

The night was a blank.

Drinking at the Lord Roberts with Keri. Two drinks there. Then –

_Blank._

His stomach turned and he leaned over the basin again, coughing up a little sour bile. Never in his life had Jack McCoy been drunk enough to lose an entire evening into a black hole of alcoholic amnesia. _And it's not like there haven't been times I wished I could_. Even that one night he'd have given anything to forget, that night when, barely able to stand, he'd staggered into his apartment to hear the ringing phone, to hear Adam Schiff's voice cracking out of the answering machine, even that night he could recall with agonizing clarity. But last night –

_Nothing._

He splashed water on his face, swallowed a palmful and retched it up again. _Jesus._

_Nothing._

By the time he made it in to the office his stomach had settled a little but the night before was still a void. He sank into his desk chair and pulled the nearest file toward him, staring sightlessly at the words as they blurred in front of him. _People v Chan_ … _precedent of … motion in limine -_

"Well, you look like crap," Regan said from the doorway. McCoy looked up to see her studying him with what he thought of as her 'cop face': impersonal, incurious. _Impervious._ "Rough night?"

"I'm not in the fucking _mood_ , Regan," he snarled irritably. Her eyes widened a little at the edge to his voice, but she only shrugged a little.

"I've rescheduled O'Connell and his lawyer for two," she said, exactly as if McCoy's answer had been reasonable. For some reason that annoyed McCoy further, and he grunted an acknowledgement, turning back to his file. "Okay, then," Regan said, voice light and even. "I'll be prepping for today's arraignments."

"Then go," McCoy said shortly, frowning at his papers.

After a moment he heard his door close and looked up again, thinking that Regan had closed it as she left.

Keri Dyson stood just inside his office, door closed behind him. She held a large buff envelope defensively in front of her chest.

"ADA Dyson," McCoy said. _Two drinks with her last night, and then … what?_ "What can I do for you?"

She took a step forward and the light from the window fell full across her face. One eye was black and swollen, her lip split, her cheek bruised.

"Jesus," McCoy said involuntarily, springing to his feet. "What the – Keri, did someone – ?"

Her lip trembled, her eyes filled with tears.

"Sit down," McCoy urged, taking a few quick steps toward her. "Sit – "

"Don't touch me!" she cried desperately, backing away. "Don't come any closer!"

The fear in her voice froze him where he stood.

_Two_ _drinks with her last night. And then …_

_What?_

The shape of the answer to that question loomed up out of the dark. His stomach twisted and he felt sweat spring out cold on his face. _Don't touch me!_

_Don't you come near me!_

Not Keri's voice, but one he knew much better. One he'd heard every day of his life until the day he packed his bags and walked out the door, bound for law school, bound for New York City, bound for somewhere – _anywhere_ – else. _No, John, don't!_

Different voice, but the same fear.

"Tell me," McCoy said. His voice sounded strange to him, far away. _Please, John, don't!_ "Tell me."

"Tell _you_?" Keri asked. "Don't you – are you trying to pretend you don't know?"

McCoy shook his head. "I don't – don't remember. What happened. We had a couple of drinks. After …" He shook his head again. "I don't remember."

"You got loaded at the _Lord Roberts_ ," Keri said, voice dripping with acidic contempt. "I walked you home. I didn't want the _tabloids_ to get a picture of you passed out in a gutter somewhere. I walked you home. And when I got you there – I wanted to leave. And you – didn't want me to."

_No, John, please, stop!_

"Did I – " He couldn't get the words out. "Is that – your face. Are you saying – ?"

"If you want to pretend you can't remember, fine," Keri said angrily. "But if you think that will let you get away with it, you can think again." She fumbled with the envelope she carried, got it open and yanked out a folder. She edged closer to him, slapped the folder down on his desk and backed away. "It's all there. Take a look."

Numbly, McCoy picked the folder up and looked at the pages inside. _Mercy General ER … Keri Dyson …_ A clinical list of injuries, a doctor's signature.

"I never thought you'd be the kind of man who'd – " Keri's voice faltered. "I never thought – "

"Neither did I," McCoy said, but it was a lie. _No, John, don't – stop! Please!_ Nature or nurture, either way, he'd always known what his family inheritance was, always told himself that he wouldn't, he _couldn't_ , turn into his father.

Always wondered if he could erase that heritage by determination alone.

_And now I know._

_Now I know I can't._

"Are you pressing charges?" he asked Keri. His voice was cool and professional, and he heard it as if it belonged to someone else.

"That would finish you," she said. "And maybe you deserve to be finished. But – but maybe there's a way out." She shrugged. "You were drunk. You acted – out of character, I don't know you well enough to tell. But should you lose everything because of it?"

"Mercy beyond the law is above your pay scale," McCoy said. _As if we're talking about somebody else._ "You're an officer of the court. You know your responsibilities."

"The law also provides for restitution," Keri said. "For making things right. And you could – you could make _restitution_ , Mr. McCoy. You could make things right." Her gaze hardened a little. "I've been stuck down in Identity Theft for a year. I'll never make it up the ladder unless I get some real prosecutions on my record. I hear there's an opening in Narcotics."

"You want a transfer to Narcotics?" McCoy asked.

"You can make it happen," Keri said. "And if you did … I wouldn't feel the need to walk down to Complaints and tell them about how I was assaulted last night."

McCoy looked at her for a moment. "You want me to get you transferred – promoted. And in exchange, you won't press charges against me."

"That's about it exactly," Keri said, nodding.

_All those cases I prosecuted, all those crooked lawyers and corrupt cops, using their power in the system to create a little wriggle room for themselves … And me, so smug, so superior, so certain it would never be me._

"I need to make a phone call," McCoy said slowly.

"I'll wait," Keri said.

"I think you should," McCoy told her. He picked up the receiver and weighed it his hand. _Final things should have more fanfare_.

But they never did. _The slam of a screen door, the recorded message on a pager service, the tone on the line as you wait to dial …_ Final moments came quietly.

He dialed an extension, waited for the voice.

* * *

.oOo.


	3. One Phone Call

McCoy held the receiver to his ear, looking across his desk at Keri Dyson as she waited for him to tell Mike Cutter in Narcotics that he was getting a new ADA. He felt as if he was watching himself through a thick layer of glass, but habit carried him forward.

The ringing stopped, replaced by a familiar voice.

"Regan," McCoy said. "I need you to come into my office right away."

"What the hell – " Keri said, taking a quick step towards him.

"This needs more than one phone call," McCoy told her, hanging up the phone. "Just wait."

The door behind Keri opened and Regan hurried in. "What is it?" she asked McCoy.

He took a second to answer her, studying her, the way she looked at him, without doubt, without hesitation. _As if I'm still the man who deserves that faith._ As he hesitated, Regan looked at Keri and gasped.

"Jesus, Keri, who the hell – " Her fists clenched as if she wanted to deal with whoever had beaten Keri herself.

"Regan," McCoy interrupted quietly. He picked the pad of Complaints forms from his desk and held them out to her, along with a pen. "I need you to fill out two complaints and walk them downstairs for me."

"Uh-huh," Regan said, taking the papers. "On who, for what?"

"What the hell are you doing?" Keri asked sharply.

"Remembering my responsibilities as an officer of the court, Ms Dyson," McCoy said evenly. He turned back to Regan. "Regan, the first is against ADA Keri Dyson, for coercion in the second degree. Complaining witness, John J McCoy."

"You'll regret that," Keri said angrily.

"I doubt it," McCoy said. "Regan. Fill in the form."

Regan's eyebrows lifted but she started writing.

"I'm not sticking around for – " Keri started to say, moving toward the door.

"Ms Dyson, if you leave this room before Ms Markham does, I'll have you held pending arraignment," McCoy told her. Keri stopped still.

"You _have_ got brass balls," she said wonderingly.

Regan finished writing and ripped the form off the pad. "What's the other complaint?" she asked McCoy.

"Against John J McCoy – "

Regan's pen skidded over the page and her head shot up. " _What_?" she asked.

"For assault in the second degree," McCoy went on steadily, ignoring her interruption. "Complaining witness, Keri Dyson."

Regan stared at him, and then swung around to stare at Keri, who looked just as astounded. "Complaining – what the – is this some kind of joke, Jack? I thought I was done with the rookie hazing."

"I'm not joking," McCoy said. "And neither is Ms Dyson. You need to put your pen on the paper to write, Regan." He tried to smile, aware that it was probably a grimace.

"If you think I'm going to collar you – "

McCoy opened the folder Keri had given him and leaned forward to put it on the desk in front of Regan. "Ms Dyson alleges that I caused these injuries in the attempt to commit another crime, namely, sexual assault. That's assault in the second."

"Who witnessed this alleged assault?" Regan demanded, turning to Keri. "Keri? Is this true? Why would you – "

"Regan," McCoy said quietly, and she looked back to him. "Trust me," he said. "Just fill out the forms and walk them down to the Complaints Room."

She hesitated, and he held her gaze, then let one eyelid droop in the subtlest of winks. It was a high-sign, saying as clearly as words _This is one more wild play from the Jack McCoy playbook._ Regan hesitated, and then bent over the form, filling in the required boxes.

McCoy felt a slight pang at how readily she was willing to back his play, no matter if the strategy didn't make sense to her. She would blame herself, later, he knew, for being fooled, and he regretted the necessity, but the regret was far away, beyond the blank horror that had been roaring through him since the moment he had understood what Keri Dyson was telling him.

"I'm not sticking around for this charade," Keri said angrily.

"You'll be coming with me," Regan said, getting to her feet. She picked up the file McCoy had shown her. "You've got an affidavit to swear, and charges to answer."

"I can't believe you'd do this, Jack," Keri said.

"I can't believe you'd think I wouldn't," McCoy answered.

"Let's go," Regan said calmly, but in a tone that would admit no argument. _Cop voice_ , McCoy thought. He'd heard it a thousand times over the years as uniforms or detectives picked up a suspect or moved along an overly inquisitive passer-by. Regan took Keri's arm, gently, but again making it clear that she wouldn't tolerate resistance.

"Make them both priority, Regan," McCoy said.

She nodded, gave him one level look that let him know that she might be going along with him for now, but she'd expect an explanation later, and led Keri out the door.

McCoy sank heavily into his chair. For a moment he didn't move, gazing sightlessly at the sea of papers on his desk, at the trials he'd never prosecute, the arguments he'd never make, the law books he'd never need again.

_Final moments should have more fanfare._

And what would he say to Regan when she came back? _Sorry, kiddo, turns out I'm even more of an asshole than you suspected?_

He took a breath against the roiling of his gut and pushed himself to his feet. It was only a few steps to the side door of his office, a few more to Colleen's desk.

"I need a few moments of Arthur's time," he told her.

From the look Colleen gave him, McCoy guessed he looked like hell. "He's free," she said. "Go through."

"Thank you, Colleen," McCoy said. "For everything."

He turned away from her puzzled expressed and pushed open Arthur's door, that once upon a time had been Adam's door. _Oh, god,_ he thought suddenly, _Adam is sure to hear about this._

The blank horror receded enough to let him feel a keen, stabbing grief, and he hesitated on the threshold.

"In or out, Jack, make a decision," Branch said genially.

McCoy swallowed hard, and stepped into the room.

_Final moments should have more fanfare._

_But they never do._

* * *

. _oOo._


	4. Officers of the Court

Branch heard McCoy out in silence, only the expressions of surprise, disbelief, and finally anger that chased each other across his face letting McCoy know that the DA had even _heard_ his halting story.

"I'll plead guilty, of course," McCoy finished. "At arraignment. Straight to sentencing, that should minimize – "

"You'll do nothing of the sort," Branch said, cutting him off. "You'll do nothing _at all_ except sit your ass down in that chair and not make things any worse for the office."

"Arthur – "

" _Sit!_ " Branch roared at him, and McCoy sat. As soon as he did he realized how glad he was to be off his feet. He ran one shaking hand over his face, hearing Branch making a phone call somewhere on the other side of the buzzing in his ears. _Don't, John, don't –_

 _I'll plead guilty,_ _ **whatever**_ _Branch says,_ McCoy thought dully. _Face up to it. To what I've done. To what I've become._

_Get this over with._

He heard the door open and tried to raise his head to see who had come in but the movement made the room spin crazily around him. Branch was at the other end of a long tunnel of darkness and seemed to be moving further away, his lips moving, his voice lost in the buzzing growing louder and louder –

A sharp exclamation by someone he couldn't see, and then a firm hand on his shoulder, and the cool lip of a glass against his mouth. _Water._

He drank. The buzzing receded a little, the room's rocking slowed.

"Jack, can you hear me?" Regan asked, taking the glass from his lips.

McCoy managed to make a noise of acknowledgement. Regan's fingers brushed his cheek, cool and reassuring. He steadied his hand enough to take the glass from her and drain it.

"Better?" Regan asked as he lowered the glass.

"Yes," McCoy said, and she smiled, relief breaking through the impersonal kindness she wore as a mask when something called for a response from Officer Reagan, rather than ADA Markham. She touched the back of her fingers to his forehead.

"You coming down with something?" she asked.

"I wish," McCoy told her, and she frowned.

"You look like crap, Jack," Branch said. "And I wish I could tell you to take the day, but I don't think that's an option. Ms Markham, did you know about this?"

"That Mr. McCoy was sick?" Regan asked. "I thought this morning – "

"That Mr. McCoy is planning to plead guilty to charges of felony assault."

" _Plead guilty?_ " Regan said, staring at Branch and then turning the same look of incredulity on McCoy. " _What?_ "

"I take it you _didn't_ know," Branch said, dropping into his chair. "Even though I understand _your_ signature is on the Complaint form."

"Jack told me to write it up, to write up Keri Dyson, I thought – " Regan turned back to McCoy "I thought – it was a plan, Jack, a strategy?" she asked him. When he said nothing she went on, her voice beginning to quaver: "Wasn't it? Jack?"

"No," McCoy told her, and watched the color drain from her face. "Look, Regan, Keri brought me the evidence. The charges have to be filed. As an officer of the court, I couldn't do anything else."

"Bullshit," Regan snapped, voice tight with anger. "If you'd kicked that to someone else you know very well they would have held off on the charges pending investigation and maybe even until the Grand Jury – "

She was leaning over him as she spoke, eyes blazing, and McCoy pushed himself to his feet, forcing her to step back and look up to meet his gaze.

"And why should they hold off?" he demanded. "Why should _I_ get special treatment?"

"Unverified charges with serious consequences warrant further investigation _regardless_ who they're made against," Regan retorted, not backing away. "I would never have put that complaint in the system if I'd known – "

"I know," McCoy said quietly. "I know. That's why I didn't tell you."

Regan stared at him, comprehension dawning in her eyes. "Well fuck you too," she said at last, very evenly. "And how are we going to get you out of _this_ mess?"

"That's a damn good question, Ms Markham," Branch said. He slapped his hand down on his desk. "Dammit, Jack! The paperwork is in the system. You know how it would look if this office declines to prosecute?"

"Yes," McCoy said. "That's why I made sure it was _in_ the system before I came to talk to you."

"Yet again the great Jack McCoy makes an end-run around procedure, is that it?' Branch said.

"No – that's not – I didn't want you put in the position of having to make the decision – " McCoy protested.

" _You're_ in no shape to make this kind of decision," Regan said. "And what's more, you have no _right_ to make this kind of decision. It should be up to the ADA who catches the call – "

"And _you_ caught the call," McCoy pointed out.

"You _picked_ me to catch the call because you knew you could _flim-flam_ me into following _your_ lead!" There was an edge to Regan's voice McCoy had never heard before, and he thought he could see tears standing in her eyes. _Tears of pure rage, probably_ , he thought. "Because I'm _too damn stupid_ to see through you, right?"

"Not stupid," McCoy said quietly. "But yes, I knew you'd follow my lead."

His admission took the heat out of Regan's indignation. "Why, Jack?" she asked softly.

"I'm going to plead guilty – and I don't want the whole thing drawn out by some junior ADA trying to curry favor by stretching the rules," McCoy said.

"You are _not_ going to plead guilty," Branch said.

"You can't instruct a defendant how to plead," McCoy said quickly.

"Do you think that a guilty plea will get you out of jail time?" Branch asked. "I can't be seen to do that kind of favor. And you _know_ what will happen to you in jail. Hell, Jack, half the worst criminals in the state's prisons were sent there by _you_. What do you think is going to happen when you're locked up with them?"

"I'm not asking for a favor, Arthur," McCoy said. " _Or_ looking for a deal."

"I'll tell you now, no prosecutor in this office will accept a guilty plea from you," Branch said. "I won't have a whiff of backroom dealing around this. It'll all be out in the open, in open court. Justice will be done, and justice will be _seen_ to be done."

The thought made McCoy dizzy. He'd thought the worst of it would be the sentence. It was too easy to imagine the grill door swinging shut, for once not letting him out but locking him in, _but if I can't do the time I shouldn't have done the crime_. His mind had jumped right past the possibility of sitting at the bar table on the wrong side of the aisle while a judge and jury and a prosecution team made up of his colleagues and god-knew how many reporters listened to Keri Dyson tell them exactly what had happened, exactly what kind of man he'd turned out to be … his stomach twisted and he swallowed hard.

"Fine," he managed to say. "I'll represent myself. I'll offer no evidence. You can have your show, Arthur."

Branch shook his head. "A lawyer who represents himself has a – "

"A fool for a client, I _know_ ," McCoy finished harshly. "I think we've all established I've fallen a little short of the wisdom of Solomon!"

"You want to be an idiot?" Branch said. "Fine! Dammit, Jack, after all the times I've bent over backwards for you and your quixotic crusades and your high-and-wide calls and your eleventh-hour hail mary passes … Always leaving the mess for someone else to clean up. Always leaving it up to someone else to save this office from the consequences. To save _you_ from the consequences. Well, not this time. You want to hang yourself, I'm happy to help you. Hell, I'll pay for the rope. In fact, I'm going to put my _second_ best tenth floor prosecutor on your case. Ms Markham, be ready to arraign Mr. McCoy this afternoon."

* * *

.oOo.


	5. Conflict Of Interest

"Ms Markham," Branch said, "Be ready to arraign Mr. McCoy this afternoon."

"You've got to be fucking _kidding_ me," Regan said flatly.

"I know I can count on you," Branch said, his voice heavy with meaning.

Regan stared at him, fists clenching. "Is this a punishment? Because I blew off that fundraiser last week?"

"I wouldn't assign a prosecutor to a case to _punish_ them, Ms Markham," Branch said. "A D-class Felony like second degree assault is exactly your pay-grade. Or are you telling me you can't do your job?"

"I have an _obvious_ conflict of interest," Regan said tightly.

McCoy tried to contemplate a full trial with himself as the defendant and Regan Markham appearing for the people. His imagination was not equal to the task. _On opposite sides of the aisle …_ it was inconceivable. He shook his head, ignored by Regan and Branch both, and reached for his wallet.

"A conflict of interest? More than anyone else in this building? Oh, really?" Branch said. "I thought I told you two to put a stop to that."

"There was nothing to put a stop to and that's _not_ what I mean," Regan said, voice rising. "I've second chaired for Jack for more than six months, that _does_ give me more of a conflict than anyone else in the building, when the jury acquits Jack'll never be clear of the suspicion I threw the case – "

McCoy realized that his wallet was still in the pocket of the coat he'd worn to work that morning. As Branch was taking breath for what was sure to be an angry tirade, McCoy took Regan's arm.

"Regan, do you have a dollar?" he asked.

"What?" Regan said distractedly, her attention still on Branch.

"Ms Markham, I'm not asking you to throw the case. I'm _telling_ you to prosecute this as hard as you would any other D felony," Branch said.

"Give me a dollar, Regan," McCoy said urgently.

"What for?" Regan asked, puzzled.

" _Ms Markham!"_ Branch bellowed.

"Give me a dollar! Right now!" McCoy demanded.

Mr. Branch, it's completely inappropriate –" Regan said, fumbling in her pocket. "It would look like this office wasn't remotely interested in a fair outcome –" She found a dollar bill, pulled it out and shoved it in McCoy's hand.

"I don't need you to tell me what's inappropriate, young lady," Branch said. "I need someone I can rely on to do what has to be done – "

"Here," McCoy said, holding out the dollar bill to Regan. Bemused, she took it. He turned back to Branch. "Sorry, Arthur, Regan can't prosecute this case. It would be a conflict of interest."

"Because she's worked with you? That's never stopped this office when prosecuting its own in the past – "

"Because I just retained her to represent me!" McCoy said.

Regan and Branch both turned to look at him, their expressions of incredulity lending them a fleeting resemblance.

Regan found her voice first. "You _what_?"

"You want to prosecute me?" McCoy asked her.

"No!" Regan said instantly. "Kick your goddamn ass, maybe – "

"Then choose the other door," McCoy said.

He held her gaze, willing her to agree. _Come on, Regan,_ he urged her silently. _Come on. Trust me. One more time. Trust me once more, for old times' sake._

"Fine," Regan said at last, shaking her head a little.

"Oh for – " Branch said, and threw up his hands. "Ms Markham, you can't work for private clients while you work for this office!"

"Take this as my application for leave," Regan told him.

"Leave _without_ pay," Branch said. "As for you, Jack, you're suspended _with_ pay pending the outcome of your trial."

"No, I'll resign. Now," McCoy said. "You can't want your EADA, suspended or not, in court as a defendant – "

"I can't want the papers saying I forced you to resign on the basis on an untested charge, _either_ ," Branch said. "This is going to hurt the office enough as it is. Suspension. With pay. Innocent until proven guilty. Even you, Jack."

"I get paid and Regan doesn't?" McCoy protested. " _I'm_ the guilty one."

"Leave without pay is standard for our prosecutors when they want to take other jobs," Branch reminded him. "Do _you_ think you've been treated unfairly, Ms Markham? Because the door is behind you if you do."

"I don't think leave without pay is the _most_ unfair thing that's happened to me today, if that's what you're asking," Regan said trenchantly.

"It isn't, but I'll take that as an answer," Branch said. "The two of you, get the hell out of here. Don't stop at your offices. Turn in your badges at the security station on the way out."

McCoy turned to the door, but Regan hesitated.

"Changed your mind, Ms Markham?" Branch asked.

She lifted her chin. "No, sir."

"Then get out of here before I change mine."

McCoy walked straight past Colleen, ignoring her worried expression, heading for the elevator in the hope that he could beat the gossip mill out of the building. Regan hurried after him, catching his elbow and tugging him to a stop.

"We need to talk about who you're really going to hire," she said urgently. "They can get the arraignment held until – "

"I'm really going to hire _you_ ," McCoy said. "And I don't want the arraignment held. I want a speedy trial."

"Jack, I'm not a defense attorney and I'm not experienced enough to handle this case," Regan said. "The case is thin but it's still going to be hard to beat without witnesses to back you up. You need good representation, someone like Melnick or - "

"If I wanted good representation I wouldn't have hired you." McCoy regretted the words the instant they were out of his mouth. Regan's head snapped back as if he had – _hit her, oh god_ – and the color drained from her face. "I didn't mean –"

"Yes, you did," she said tonelessly.

"I want my lawyer to run the case my way. That's what I meant.," McCoy tried to explain.

"And you know you can run rings around me?" Regan said. "Like you did this morning."

"Since Arthur wouldn't let me resign, I am still technically your boss," Jack said. "So I know you'll do exactly as I say. Your job depends on it."

She stared at him, fingers loosening their grip on his arm, and he took the opportunity to start towards the elevator again.

"I'll get the arraignment held over to Monday," Regan said, catching him up.

"No special favors, Regan!" McCoy snapped.

"I've _seen_ the complaint, remember?" Regan snapped back. "It's thin as tissue. Whoever Branch puts on it will jump at the chance of a weekend to work on it. And _I'm_ not ready for court this afternoon."

"Fine," McCoy said.

"We need to meet as soon as possible," Regan said.

"You have all the instructions I need to give you," McCoy said. "Offer no evidence. No cross of the prosecution witnesses. As close to a guilty plea as you can get."

"Bullshit, Jack – " Regan said, and then stopped. "You look like hell. I don't think we should be arguing about this now. Go home and get some rest. I'll get working. Come to Abbie's tomorrow, nine sharp."

_Abbie_. Something else he hadn't considered, that Abbie would have to know. And Serena. And Jamie Ross. _Oh, god._

_Don't, John, stop it, please …_

"Fine," McCoy said. "Whatever. But don't expect me to change my mind."

" _Why_ , Jack?" Regan cried in exasperation. "I don't understand – Mr. Branch made it clear you won't get away with a misdemeanor by taking a plea – no deal on sentencing – _why_ won't you even _offer_ a defence?"

"There's one reason to plead guilty that you haven't considered," McCoy said, stepping into the elevator and turning back to face Regan.

"What?"

"That I _am_."

The doors closed on her shocked expression, and the elevator took him down.

* * *

.oOo.


	6. Old Friends

_Abbie Carmichael's Townhouse_

_4 pm Friday May 4_ _th_ _2007_

* * *

Regan stared down at the pages spread out on the dining room table. She brushed her fingers across them as if the inspiration that had been eluding her might seep into her fingertips.

It didn't.

She was about to pick up the top page of Keri Dyson's affidavit when she heard the front door close.

"Regan?" Abbie called.

"In here," Regan called back.

She heard Abbie's footsteps in the hall, and then the woman herself appeared, one hand pressed into the small of her back, the other resting on her swollen belly.

"You're home early," Regan said.

"At the price of a briefcase full of work," Abbie said. "You're home early too. Jack give you a leave pass?"

Regan took a deep breath. "Not exactly," she said, trying to keep her tone light. "I have good news and bad news. The good news is, it's lucky you aren't financially dependent on the money I pay you for room and board."

Abbie looked at her, gaze shrewd. "Sacked?" she asked, voice neutral.

"Leave without pay. Because – to defend – " Suddenly tears threatened as the panic she had been fighting all afternoon overwhelmed her. "Jack's charged with assault," she managed to say, and then pressed her hand over her mouth.

"What! Who?" Abbie demanded. "He finally took a swing at Gorton, didn't he?"

"No," Regan said, feeling sick. "An ADA. Keri Dyson. Says he hit her – says he _beat_ her – last night. After we were all out drinking." She could hear her voice rising but couldn't slow down as Abbie stared at her in shock and dawning horror. "They left together and then this morning she came in and – " a hiccupping sob shook her and she gasped for breath "And – and – she said she wouldn't charge him if he – got her promoted – and he ordered me to write the paper on him – and I thought – I thought - "

"Take it easy, take it easy," Abbie said, putting her arm around Regan's shoulders. "Deep breaths, there you go." She pulled a chair closer and sat down. "Start at the beginning."

Regan pulled herself together and told the story, from the cab ride to the bar to McCoy's shocking final words to her. "I've been sitting here trying to work out what to do," she finished, "but, Abbie, I'm not a defense attorney! I _can't_ be the only thing between Jack and jail sentence – I'm just not good enough!"

" _He_ can't think so, if you're the one he wants," Abbie pointed out.

"He _picked_ me _because_ I'm not good enough," Regan said bitterly, "He as good as said so."

The anger that had been simmering since she had first realized how casually McCoy had played her and how _little_ he had trusted her began to boil. Shock, panic, the desperate search for answers and the sheer horror of the thought that McCoy could end up somewhere like Wyoming Correctional Facility – _god, they'd never send him to Sing Sing, would they? He can't be a security risk!_ – where every second inmate would have a good reason to shank him in the showers: the emotional rollercoaster had pushed aside her anger at McCoy, at his _bone-headed,_ _ **pig**_ _-headed, high-and-mighty-I'm-the-EADA-so-just-trust-me selfish goddamn manipulative –_

"Goddamn him!" she exploded, slamming her fists down on the dining room table hard enough to make the salt-cellar jump and Abbie flinch. "He played me just like he'd play a defendant! I thought – I thought I'd _earned_ better! I thought I'd proved to him that he could _trust_ me! And he treats me like _this_ , the son-of-a-bitch! Makes me think it's one more Jack McCoy end-run and then waltzes in to Branch's office and announces he's going to _plead guilty_ – to something he could _never_ do! Damn, damn, _goddamn_ him! I can't - " Her eyes filled with tears of mingled anger and betrayal.

"You certainly can't do him any good when you're in this kind of state," Abbie said with a certain degree of asperity.

Regan glared at her. "I'm glad you're so unmoved by this."

"Don't you dare imagine you know how I feel," Abbie said hotly. "I've known Jack a hell of a lot longer than you have, and I can't make any more sense of this woman's story than you can – or work out why the hell, even if he isn't going to tell you what he's thinking, he couldn't pick up the phone and call _me_. But this isn't the time for sulking about it." She prodded Regan hard in the arm with one finger, her gaze intimidating in its intensity. "Jack _needs_ you – needs _us_ – no matter what he might think, or say. So get your head in the goddamn game."

"Yes, ma'am," Regan said reflexively. Abbie glared at her as if Regan was being sarcastic, but then smiled a little.

"I'm used to ordering junior prosecutors around these days," she said. "I guess it's habit. I have to make some phone calls." She put her hands flat on the table and levered herself to her feet. "Go and clear your head," she ordered Regan. "Take a shower. Go for a run. Do both. Just be back at this table at six, ready to work."

"What happens at six?" Regan asked, obediently getting to her feet.

"We start sorting this mess out," Abbie said grimly.

Regan took Abbie's advice – _her orders_ – and changed into sweatpants and sneakers to hit the sidewalk. Hoping to burn off her anger at McCoy, she set a pace that had her gasping within a mile. By the time she'd made it back to the front steps of Abbie's brownstone she was thoroughly winded and drenched in sweat – and still fuming. In the shower, she scrubbed hard enough to leave her skin red, then yanked a comb through the knots in her hair, ignoring the pain. _Damn him, anyway._ Dragging her T-shirt over her head recklessly quickly, she banged her elbow on the wall of the bathroom hard enough to bring tears to her eyes.

_Damn him!_

Deliberately, she elbowed the wall again, the impact sending a sharp shock of pain up her arm.

_Damn him_ _, damn him, damn him!_

The pain in her arm wasn't enough. Regan clenched her fist and punched the wall as hard as she could.

The impact left a thin smear of blood on the white tiles. Regan cradled her throbbing hand, swearing under her breath, and then fumbled the tap on in the basin and held her bleeding knuckles under a stream of cold water.

 _Well_ , _**that**_ _will teach Jack a lesson,_ she thought wryly, flexing her fingers to see if anything was broken. _I guess those sessions with Skoda still have a way to go._

 _At least I didn't hit_ _ **Jack**_ _, this time_.

She wiped the blood off the wall with a tissue, put a Band-Aid on her bruised knuckles, and went downstairs to find out what Abbie had planned.

Abbie's phone-calls had borne fruit. There were three familiar faces around the dining room table: Serena Southerlyn, Danielle Melnick, and Sally Bell. Seated at the head of the table, opposite Abbie, was a woman Regan had never met but who she recognized: Nora Lewin, law professor and former DA.

"I can't stay for this meeting," Abbie said, "because unless I take leave from the Southern District I can't be legally hired by you, Regan, so no privilege would apply. But that doesn't apply to any one else here."

Serena was holding a sheaf of papers, and she pushed them across the table to lie in front of the only empty chair. "Contracts," she said. "We've all signed. Your signature is all that's needed to make us co-counsel."

"Not if Jack doesn't – " Regan started to say.

Nora Lewin interrupted her. " _Corin v Wabhurt_ establishes that privilege attaches when senior counsel hires assistance," the former District Attorney said with cool precision, "Whether they are legal practitioners or others covered by work-product protection, until or unless the client gives instructions to terminate the relationship." She paused, pursing her lips a little. "Sign the forms, Ms Markham. I have the impression we have a lot of work to do here."

Regan nodded, looking around for a pen. Wordlessly, Sally Bell took one from her pocket and held it out. As Regan began to sign her name on each of the four contracts, Abbie stood up.

"I'll be in the kitchen," she said. "You're going to need money for this. I'm going to open an account and start calling possible donors."

"I didn't think of any of this," Regan admitted quietly as Abbie left the room. "The cost – any of it."

"When you're an ADA, someone else always meets the bill," Nora Lewin said. "And I speak as someone who had to authorize a fair few of those bills." She smiled, and Regan found her suddenly less intimidating. "Why don't you take us through the case and we'll see where we are."

Regan took a deep breath, and for the second time in a few hours told the story, more calmly than her outburst to Abbie. When she'd finished there was a moment's silence.

"What should I do?" Regan asked at last.

"It's he said-she said," Sally Bell said. "Unless they have forensic evidence, it'll come down to credibility on the stand. You need to find out everything you can about Keri Dyson – find something to destroy her credibility."

"Does she make a habit of going home with co-workers?" Danielle Melnick asked. "Does she have a drinking problem? Does she do drugs?"

Regan nodded. "I'll start looking in to her."

"Not you," Serena said. "Stop thinking like an ADA. You're lead counsel. Hire a private investigator."

"I don't know any private investigators," Regan said.

"Know any cops?" Danielle said. When Regan nodded, she went on: "Plenty of retired police officers end up as PIs. Ask for a recommendation."

"Okay," Regan said.

"You're got a bigger problem than worrying about the trial," Nora Lewin said. "You've got a defendant who plans to plead guilty at arraignment. And no matter what Arthur Branch might say, he can't prevent that. If you can't change Jack's mind by Monday – "

"That's the ballgame," Danielle agreed grimly. "Where is Jack tonight?"

Regan shrugged. "I wasn't fast enough to stop him at Hogan Place. He's not answering his cell, or his home phone." _Not entirely true_. She'd _told_ him to go home and get some rest, she'd made no effort to stop him leaving. _The truth is, I couldn't bear to keep arguing with him – couldn't bear to know how little he thought of me as a lawyer, how little he trusted me, couldn't bear to know what else might slip out, unintentionally truthful._

Danielle raised her eyebrows. To Regan, the other woman's disapproval was a clear as if she'd just come out and said _How could you let him go off on his own?_ "I figured – he made it clear he didn't want to talk to me," Regan added defensively.

"I think we're all agreed that whatever's going on here, Jack's not making the best decisions," Sally said, and Regan heard criticism in her tone. She bit her lip and stayed silent. _They're right. I shouldn't have let my own feelings get in the way – should have dived through the doors into the lift, should have run downstairs instead of walked, should have …_ All of those choices seemed easy now, in retrospect, without the knot of shock freezing her gut, without her sense of betrayal hazing her vision and clouding her decisions. At the time, she'd had excuses: she had to arrange for security to get her personal belongings, she had to get the defense attorney's copy of the complaint and the paperwork … convenient tasks that meant she didn't have time to chase after McCoy, even when, waiting for security, she'd seen Colleen going past her to the lift with McCoy's coat and known he was waiting in the lobby.

"You're going to have to _make_ Jack talk to you," Sally said, "Before Monday. And believe me, I know how much I'm asking. He's got to tell you what happened, and you've got to get him to plead not guilty."

"Nobody gets Jack McCoy to do anything he doesn't want to do," Regan said. "And I don't know _why_ – I don't know why he's so set on a guilty plea."

"Have you considered that he might _be_ guilty?" Nora asked.

"There's no way," Regan said instantly. "And I can't believe you'd even _suggest_ – "

"All right," Nora said. "Calm down."

Regan realized she was on her feet, fists clenched. "I'm sorry," she said, sinking back into her chair. "I know – you have to consider all the options. _I_ have to consider all the options. But there's no way this stacks up."

Nora gave what Regan felt was only a noncommittal nod. _And you call yourself his friends_ , she fumed to herself. _One of you wondering if he's guilty, two acting as if the only thing to do is to destroy the prosecution witness like every low-rent domestic case –_ she was as angry with them as she was with Jack McCoy. She managed to keep her mouth shut and her eyes on the papers in front of her as the four other women tossed ideas back and forth, debated discovery, proposed motions _in limine_ , until Serena's voice interrupted her silent fuming.

"Tell us again what happened at the bar, Regan," Serena said.

"We got a cab with Bill Fitzgerald," Regan started. She told them the whole thing again – the piano, the singing, McCoy at the booth with Keri … When she finished Danielle looked up from the notes she was making.

"How many drinks did he have at the office?' she asked Regan.

"None," Regan said.

"None that you saw," Danielle noted.

"Well, yes, but we were going through files from late afternoon. He wasn't drinking," Regan said.

"How many drinks did he have at the bar?"

"I'm not sure," Regan said. "I saw him go to the bar once. I saw Keri Dyson hand him a drink at one point, and I saw her make another trip to the bar later. Three, I'd say, at least. What's that got to do with anything?"

"Start thinking like a trial lawyer," Danielle said. "If _Jack_ had three, then Keri probably had three. That makes her drunker than him, when you take bodyweight and gender into consideration. That makes her a less than reliable witness."

"Yeah, but she wasn't drunker than him," Regan said. "When they were leaving, she was steady on her feet, but Jack looked – more than tipsy, I'd have said."

"Then he had a lot more than three drinks," Sally snorted, and Nora smiled.

"And there was nothing out of the ordinary?" Danielle pressed.

"Like what?" Regan asked.

"Like anything out of the ordinary," Danielle said sharply.

"You know Jack's reputation," Regan responded equally sharply. "There's apparently nothing out of the ordinary about him going home with company, co-workers or not."

Serena shook her head. "He's usually _discreet_ about it," she said. "You said he and Ms Dyson were behaving like teenagers. That's not like Jack."

"Well, I'm sorry," Regan said heatedly. "I'm sure that if you or Abbie had been there you would have seen the future and stopped him leaving. But you weren't, okay? _I_ was. And I may not know him as well as you or do as good a job looking out for him as you did but will you give me a fucking break, I'm only human!"

A silence followed her outburst.

"Are you angry with us, Regan?" Nora asked. "Or with Jack?"

Regan shook her head wordlessly, realizing the answer only as the question was asked. She clenched her fist, feeling the sting as she re-opened the graze on her knuckle, and resisted the urge to smash her hand against the table – _as if I could even come_ _ **close**_ _to enough pain to be fair penalty._

"Regan?" Nora asked again.

"Neither," Regan whispered, leaning forward with her arms propped on the papers in front of her. She swallowed hard. "I knew there was something off. When. At the bar. I _felt_ it – I don't know what. And I should have stepped in. And I _would_ have. But – " she fell silent. _Romance and partnership never work,_ she thought. _I thought I learnt that lesson._

"But you and Jack are involved," Danielle prompted.

"No," Regan said quickly. "No. Mr. Branch made it clear that was a career limiting move." _And I thought that gave me an escape – I thought so long as I kept things professional between us, it wouldn't matter – wouldn't matter that I didn't_ _ **feel**_ _professional._

_Wrong._

_So very, very wrong._

"But – " Regan hesitated, and then took a deep breath and forced the words out in a rush. "I figured I was just jealous of her, of Keri. That I was being a dog-in-the-manger. And I let it – I talked myself out of my own instincts. And that's how all this happened. It happened because I _let_ it happen. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. No wonder Jack won't talk to me – a partner's supposed to watch your back, not let you down – "

"So we have a client who wants to _plead_ guilty and a lead counsel who thinks she _is_ guilty," Sally said dryly. "Anyone else? Nora? Anything to get off your chest?"

"If it turns out that this Ms Dyson was hired on my watch," Nora said, "I'll take my turn with the hair shirt."

They all laughed, even Regan. Her eyes teared a little and she blinked surreptitiously, then pulled the papers in front of her a little closer.

"I'll draw up a list of everybody in the bar," she said. "We'll need statements from all of them – if only to know what they might tell a court if the defense calls them."

"You mean the prosecution," Sally corrected gently, and when Regan stared blankly at her, "You mean, if only to know what they might tell a court if the _prosecution_ calls them. _We're_ the defense. The prosecutors are the bad guys."

"Right," Regan said, trying not to show that it bothered her. "The prosecutors are the bad guys. And speaking of – latest from One Hogan Place is that Mr. Branch tapped one Michael Cutter from Narcotics to take lead on this. We need to know what he's like – his record, his work, does he deal, does he bluff?"

"I can do that," Serena volunteered. "I can run the searches from my home office, get you a summary by tomorrow night."

"Okay," Regan said. She looked at the case file in front of her, mentally allocating the tasks that remained.

"Yours is still the hardest job, Regan," Nora reminded her. "You have to talk to Jack. As soon as possible."

"Tomorrow morning," Regan promised. "Nine A.M."

"You've got to talk him around," Danielle said. "Don't take no for an answer."

"I understand," Regan said. "I understand how important it is. But have _any_ of you managed to get Jack to change his mind on something?"

Silence was the only reply she got.

* * *

.oOo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Dog in the manger' refers to an Aesop's fable about a dog sleeping on the hay in a manger, growling and barking at the cows and horses who try to eat the hay. It means someone begrudging another person having something they themselves don't want.


	7. Suitable Punishment

_Apartment of EADA Jack McCoy_

_9 pm Friday May 4_ _th_ _2007_

* * *

It wasn't until the phone began to ring for the fifth time in an hour and he reached for the cord to yank it out of the wall that McCoy realized the sun had set and he had been sitting in the dark.

He let his hand drop. The phone rang on. _Should answer that_ , he thought. _Or take it off the hook. Should turn on the light. Should order food._

He did none of those things.

The phone rang itself to silence and the machine picked up.

"Jack, it's Regan again."

_Of course it is._

"I'm going to stop calling you, since obviously if you were going to talk to me you'd turn your cell on or answer your phone." Her voice was brusque and businesslike. McCoy couldn't tell if it concealed anything – perhaps the hurt she had every right to feel at the way he'd manipulated her and then shut her out. _Perhaps the disgust she has every right to feel at what I've done._ None of it showed in her voice. "I'll see you at Abbie's tomorrow morning at nine." She paused, and her voice softened as she added: "Try to get some sleep."

Dial tone. Silence.

_Try to get some sleep._

_Fat chance._

His mind was racing, racing but going nowhere except over and over the same barren ground. _How could I ? After all time times I swore I would never turn into him – how could I?_

The only distraction from the self-recriminations beating over and over in his head was the occasional horrifying glimpse of the future – _arraignment. Sentencing. Jail._

_Adam. Jamie. Abbie._

Imagination showed him their shocked and disappointed faces, theirs and more.

_Danielle._

_Oh, god, Lisbeth._

The thought of his sister's reaction was more than he could bear and he launched himself to his feet. _Turn on the light. Take the phone off the hook. Do something. Do anything._

He hit the switch and the sudden glare made him squint. Turning to look for the phone, his eye was caught by the photo on the wall. Forgetting the phone, he crossed the room and gazed at the beautiful young woman laughing at the camera, her dark hair stirred by the breeze.

_Th_ _ank god_ _ **you'll**_ _never kno_ w, he thought, and then realized he had just been grateful Claire was dead because it spared him humiliation.

Grief and horror and sickening self-loathing combined to send a stab of pain through him so sharp he wavered on his feet. He steadied himself against the wall, and then took Claire's photo down. She was laughing, as she would always be laughing, but he imagined he could see sadness in her eyes. _She always had a way of letting me know when I feel short of her expectations_ , he thought, running his fingers over the glass. _Usually with those big eyes silently accusing me every time I looked at her._

He laid the picture face down on the nearest bookshelf and yanked the phone cord out at the wall.

The movement sent another stab of pain through his head, and this time he recognized it as the familiar, one-sided pain of migraine. _Perfect end to a perfect day_ , he thought sourly, heading for the bathroom to find his pills.

Shaking one into his palm, he paused, studying the pill, and then his reflection in the mirror.

McCoy knew that family photographs showed only a slight resemblance to his father _. But in every way that matters_ _Keri Dyson saw a perfect replica of the old man last night._

_A McCoy fist, coming right at the face._

His head throbbed. McCoy wondered if a migraine hurt as much as a cracked cheekbone, if different pains could be quantified and compared. _Add an extra toll for the terror and the humiliation_ , he thought. _For the senseless fear that lingers afterwards, once you've been taught that no-where's safe._

He looked again at the pill, and tilted his hand to let it fall into the basin and roll down the drain. The bottle was almost full – he'd refilled the prescription only weeks earlier – and after a moment's consideration McCoy popped the cap and tipped the rest of the pills into the toilet. He knew what was coming far too well to think that his resolve would hold once the pain really started.

The sound of the flush grated on his nerves. _Sensitivity to sound_ , McCoy thought, _number two on my personal list of reliable symptoms._

On cue, a trail of sparks began to work its way down the periphery of his vision and his gut clenched with nausea. As always, he fought against it, knowing that the battle was pointless, but knowing too that retching would drive the pain in his head up to intolerable levels.

He leaned over the basin, staring at the white porcelain in preference to looking at what he'd see in the mirror.

_This'll get worse before it gets better._

_No question._

* * *

...

* * *

When McCoy heard the bell shrilling through the apartment, the noise drilling into his head like a white-hot jackhammer, he had been lying on the bathroom floor for some time.

How long, he didn't know, didn't care. It hadn't taken long for the migraine to drive him to his knees, waves of nausea leaving him hanging over the toilet bowl. Some time after that, he had been unable to keep holding himself even nominally upright against the mounting pain, and so he'd curled up on the floor to ride it out.

Now he was so far down in the black agony of his migraine that the possibility of 'riding it out' was a thought he could no longer made sense of. There was neither a future nor a past to this single extended moment of pain that had hollowed him out, excavating memory and emotion, rendering him nothing more than a vessel for a pain so intense he would have considered it unendurable except, inexplicably, he continued to endure.

The bell went on and on. McCoy managed to put together the complex thought that the noise wouldn't be as loud if he covered his ears.

Trying to move brought sharp shocks of pain like axe-blows to the side of his head and he retched. The spasms made the pain worse. By the time they'd passed and he lay limply on the cool tiles again, the bell had stopped.

_Thank god,_ he thought.

Another sound, this time inside the apartment, made him flinch again. It took him a moment to separate the sound itself from the pain it caused him, and only when he heard it again did he realize what it was.

"Jack?" Regan Markham called.

McCoy knew that somewhere on the other side of the pain there were reasons he didn't want her there, reasons he didn't want to see her, but all of those reasons seemed to have burned up in the fire that blazed inside his skull. Although every sound seemed more painful than the last, McCoy inexplicably found he wanted to hear Regan speak again.

He gathered himself, and managed to make a noise.

He could hear her in the hall, footsteps staggeringly loud to him even on the carpet. Then, suddenly, the room was filled with light, blinding, searing through his closed eyelids, burning into his brain like acid. He tried to turn his head away, but couldn't manage it through the pain.

Regan let out her breath with a sharp sigh. "Of all the goddamn times to go on a bender," she said exasperatedly. "Dammit, Jack!" She nudged his leg with her foot. "Come on. Time to sober up."

McCoy couldn't find words past the pain in his head to correct her assumption. He felt her hand on his arm and realized she was about to try and haul him up. Even the thought of moving made his stomach heave. He coughed bile and tried not to pass out as the sound echoed agonizingly inside his skull.

"Jack?" Regan said softly. She let go of his arm. He heard a rustle of clothing and then her voice was much nearer. "Jack?" Regan's fingers brushed his face, pressed against the pulse in his neck.

Her touch felt like sandpaper on sunburn, but McCoy found it gave him enough strength to speak.

"Light," he managed to mumble. "Off."

"Is it a migraine?" Regan asked. "Where are your pills?"

That was too complicated for McCoy to even try to answer. "Light," he whispered again. "Off. _Please._ "

"Okay," Regan said softly. "Hang in there. I'm going to get you some help."

Blessedly, the light went off.

Regan left him. McCoy couldn't summon the presence of mind to protest, but as he lay on the floor in the dark he could hear her somewhere in the apartment, and for the first time in hours he could imagine a future, a future in which Regan would come back into the room, in which he'd feel her hand and hear her voice.

He waited.

When she came back she didn't touch the light switch. McCoy heard her moving cautiously, then her hand found his shoulder and she knelt down beside him.

"Dr Margolis is coming," she murmured softly. "He'll be here soon."

McCoy managed to make a noise of assent to let her know he understood and Regan hushed him, her fingers running lightly over his hair. Her other hand traced his arm and then her fingers rested lightly over his. Moving his hand took an effort of concentration and determination that McCoy wasn't sure he had until he had done it, turning his hand over beneath hers so he could grasp her fingers. Regan squeezed his hand gently.

"I'm here," she whispered in the dark.

McCoy tightened his grip on her hand, as if it could haul him out of the pain and back to life. There was nothing in the world but the cold tiles beneath his face, the pain, and Regan's hand in his. She was an anchor against the black tide of pain trying to sweep him away and he hung on to her as tightly as he could. Her hand was broad and strong for a woman and although he closed his fingers around hers crushingly hard she made only one soft sound and then sat quietly, waiting with him in the dark, beside him in the isolation of his pain.

When she moved to free her hand from his he murmured a protest.

"I'll come right back," Regan assured him.

"Stay," McCoy whispered.

"I have to let the doctor in," Regan said, gently but firmly prizing her fingers free. "I'll be right back, Jack. I'm just going into the hall for a moment."

He let her go, sliding away into the pain and the dark. When he heard her voice again it was paired with another, the familiar voice of Dr Margolis.

McCoy felt the sting of a needle, and then, miraculously, a lessening of pain.

"Can you hear me, Jack?" Margolis asked.

"Yes," McCoy said. His voice was hoarse with disuse. He opened his eyes and began to push himself up to a sitting position. Margolis took his arm and helped him. Beyond Margolis, McCoy could see Regan standing in the bathroom doorway. McCoy leaned against the side of the bath and closed his eyes again as the doctor took his pulse.

"Excuse me, doctor," Regan said, and McCoy opened his eyes as Margolis leaned aside to let Regan past him.

She was holding a glass of water and McCoy realized how thirsty he was. Gratefully, he drank, the slightly metallic tap water the sweetest refreshment he could ever remember. Regan dampened a washcloth at the sink and knelt beside him to wipe his face.

"Thank you," McCoy said as she finished. Wordlessly, she touched his shoulder gently.

"Jack," Margolis said, "You need to be lying down. Can you stand up?"

"Sure," McCoy said, although he wasn't entirely certain. The pain had receded but he felt drained and weak, his limbs rubbery and his head light.

"Here you go," Regan said, moving closer to him and drawing his arm over her shoulder. With her help, McCoy made it to his feet. Regan put her arms around his waist and braced him. Together, they shuffled across the hall to the bedroom. The movement made McCoy dizzy and Regan's arms tightened around him as he swayed a little. "Lean on me, Jack," she said softly. "I've gotcha. Lean on me."

He was surprised at her strength as she helped him to the bed and lowered him down. The soft and yielding bed beneath him made McCoy aware of how tired he was. He found his eyes closing as Regan knelt down to take off his shoes. He felt her fingers deft and nimble, on the laces and then her hand on his shoulder urging him to lie down.

His head touched the pillow and he was out.

* * *

….…..

* * *

For a moment when he woke, McCoy didn't know where he was or what had woken him. He opened his eyes, wincing as the movement woke the memory of pain.

He was in his own bed, the room almost in darkness, lit only by a ray of light coming through the half-open door to the hall. Regan Markham had brought a chair from the dining room and positioned it so the crack of light fell on the papers in her lap. She was not reading, though: her eyes were closed, and as he watched a sheet of paper slipped from her fingers and fluttered to the floor, joining another already there. The soft susurration made McCoy realize that what had woken him was the sound of the first page falling. How long he'd been sleeping, he didn't know.

He remembered not wanting to see her, to talk to her, remembered shame and guilt and dread of what he'd see in her eyes, but the emotions were distant, leached of their charge by intervening hours of pain the way hot summer sunlight drained colour from the towels and cushions of the holiday-makers on the Jersey shore.

For a moment he watched Regan sleep, her back straight, head leaning back against the wall, exhaustion showing clearly on her face even in the low light

Another page escaped her slack fingers and whispered its way to the ground.

"Regan," McCoy said softly.

Her eyes opened instantly. "Jack," she said. "How do you feel?"

"I've felt better," he admitted. Regan frowned, and he added quickly, "And worse."

She set her papers aside and came to kneel beside him. "The doctor said you could have a pill if you needed one," she said.

"No," McCoy said.

"Don't be a martyr," Regan said.

"No, I mean, I don't need one," McCoy said. He started to raise himself on one elbow but settled for rolling over on to his back. "What time is it?"

Regan looked at her watch. "Ten," she said. "At night. You've been asleep twelve hours. That was some shot the doctor gave you."

"It was some headache," McCoy said. "You called him?"

"Yeah," Regan said. "You didn't turn up at Abbie's this morning. And I – still had your keys. Lucky for you."

McCoy hesitated, then: "Thanks."

"You owe me," Regan said matter-of-factly. "For yesterday, too. And I'll collect, Jack. I want you to cooperate with me on these charges. No more bullshit. Okay?"

It all seemed very far away, as if it had happened to someone else, and so McCoy nodded. "Okay."

"In the morning," Regan said. "I've got to – " A yaw-cracking yawn interrupted her. "I've got to get some sleep myself," she finished, getting to her feet.

"Don't go," McCoy said without thinking, then covered: "You look too tired to go anywhere. Get some sleep here."

"You need to _rest_ ," Regan said.

"That's not – " McCoy said sharply, and then more softly: "I'd like it if you'd stay." When Regan still hesitated, he realized what was going through her head. "You're scared of what I might do, aren't you?"

"Don't be an idiot," Regan said impatiently. "Of course not."

"Then stay."

Regan looked at him for a moment, and then slipped off her shoes and walked around to the other side of the bed. She lay down on her side, facing him, head pillowed on one hand, curled up primly.

For a few moments neither of them spoke. McCoy was slipping back into sleep when Regan said:

"Did you tip your pills down the drain?"

"It seemed appropriate," McCoy said. "How did you – ?"

"Date on the empty bottle," she said. "You going to do anything that stupid again?"

"No," McCoy said, and meant it.

"Okay, then," Regan said. "Because I'll kick your ass from here to Jericho if you do, you hear?"

"Jericho on Long Island?" McCoy asked. "Or Jericho up-state?"

"Could be Jericho in _Palestine_ ," Regan murmured, eyes closing. "Depends how pissed I am."

McCoy fell asleep smiling.

* * *

.oOo.


	8. Sunday Grace

Regan dragged herself reluctantly from sleep. She had the feeling that something large and horrible was waiting for her in the waking world, and all-in-all it seemed to be much more sensible to stay comfortably inside the dream she was having.

The dream was about Robbie, and for once it was a dream about the time in her life before everything changed. The time in her life when she would wake every morning with her head pillowed on Robbie's shoulder, his arm lying heavily across her shoulders.

It didn't seem quite right somehow: the arm around her, the body against hers, felt as if they belonged to someone rangier than Robbie's high-school football-star physique.

It was far too real a dream to be about anyone other than Robbie, though. Regan had slept beside him more nights of her adult life than not, and for a long time after they'd ended as a couple Regan had been able to conjure the memory of his arms around her, almost as real as this dream. She wondered why her subconscious had brought back the memory so vividly, and why it was getting the details wrong. _Robbie used to sleep on the other side_. … And Regan had inevitably woken with a crick in her neck, caused by Robbie's incurable habit of shifting her sideways when his arm around her shoulders began to go to sleep.

She had no crick in her neck. She felt as peaceful and comfortable as if she'd slept the night on a fine feather bed. Sighing, she shifted a little closer to the warm body beside her, and the arm that lightly encircled her shoulders tightened a little in response. _Stay asleep a while longer_ , she told herself. _Enjoy the dream while it lasts._

_I deserve it._ The past few days had been some of the worst in her life. _Worse than getting shot – at least, worse than getting shot the first time._

Yesterday morning, after a mostly sleepless night she'd been up and dressed and braced to take Jack on and make him see reason by seven Saturday morning. Two hours of reviewing her notes from the previous night's meeting of the 'Jack McCoy Defence League', as Danielle Melnick had dubbed them, had not improved her mood. When nine o'clock had come and gone, she'd assumed McCoy had blown off the meeting. Calls to his cell phone got only voice-mail – calls to the landline had rung out.

She'd been pissed.

Not fuming, raging with the misdirected anger and guilt that had clouded her thinking the night before. No, just ordinary, _What-the-fuck-is-he-playing-at?_ pissed. _What-kind-of-9-o'clock-does-he-call-this_? pissed.

_Now he's going to just ignore me?_ she'd thought. _We'll see about that!_

When she'd found McCoy stretched out on the floor of the darkened bathroom, her first thought had been _Of_ _ **course**_ _he chose last night to go on a bender_. Flicking on the light, she'd seen him flinch, and sighed to herself. _It's a bad hangover when the sound of a light-switch is too much_. Regan herself had spent a few nights lying on the bathroom floor – _which combines comfortingly cool tiles with convenient distance to the toilet_ – but she had always managed to haul herself to her hands and knees to throw up, a complex task she could see McCoy had failed to manage at least once.

She'd started to rouse him, preparing to haul him into the shower and begin the process of sobering him up, until something nagging at her subconscious had forced its way to the front of her mind.

Drunk enough to end up passed out on the bathroom floor, McCoy should have reeked of sour alcohol, but there was no tang of alcohol on the air. _Not drunk._ Annoyance vanished, banished by gut-clenching dread.

_Something's wrong. Something's really wrong_. _Call 9-11. No, see if he needs first aid right now first._

She knelt down beside him.

"Jack?" she said softly, pressing two fingers to the side of his neck. His pulse was steady, what she could see of his face was pale. His skin was cold but his shirt was drenched with sweat. "Jack?"

He made a low noise, turning his face further away from her. "Light," he mumbled. "Off."

_Not drunk_. His pallor, the cold sweat, photosensitivity …

"Is it a migraine?" she asked. "Where are your pills?"

As the words had left her mouth, she'd spotted a pharmacy bottle on the edge of the vanity. _Empty._

Waiting for Margolis, sitting beside McCoy in the dark, Regan had felt helpless. He was in pain; there was nothing she could do to help him. _That_ was sickeningly familiar. _Ellie, Ellie, help me, oh god, it hurts …_ Just like there was nothing she could do to help him with the charges Keri Dyson had laid against him, nothing an inexperienced lawyer like herself could do. _There's never anything I can do._

She had sat on the floor in the dark and held his hand even when his grip painfully squeezed the knuckles she'd bruised against Abbie's bathroom wall. And when she'd heard Dr Margolis's knock and moved to answer it, McCoy's fingers had tightened around hers. _Stay_ , he'd asked her.

So she had. She'd stayed through the day as he slept, watching over him, Margolis's words when she'd shown him the empty pill bottle echoing in her head. _I'm glad I'm not Catholic_ , the rotund doctor had said exasperatedly, _Ex-alter boys always have a sentimental affection for hair-shirts and self flagellation._

And she'd stayed the night, sleeping beside him.

And now it was morning.

The thought seemed to carry with it a peculiar sense of grace, as if the night passing over them was an achievement rather than an inevitability. It gave Regan the courage to leave her comforting dream, to wake up and face the day.

She opened her eyes.

The arm around her shoulders, the body against hers, didn't disappear. For a moment Regan thought she was still sleeping.

_No_.

She had been awake for quite some time. The heartbeat she could hear had never been a memory of Robbie; she had slept and woken listening to the sound of Jack McCoy's heart.

Careful not to wake him, she slipped free from his embrace and back to the other side of the bed. Curling up on her side, she rested her head on her hand and studied him. His face was the same asleep as awake, as if he had merely closed his eyes to think, mouth set firm in the determined line so familiar to her.

As she watched him he stirred, opened his eyes, and turned his head to meet her gaze.

For a moment neither of them spoke. Regan could hear her own heart beating, could hear him breathing, could hear the Sunday traffic from the street.

Then McCoy yawned, and raised his hand to scratch his head. The ring on his finger caught the light as he did, and Regan blinked.

"Show me your ring," she said.

McCoy frowned, puzzled, but extended his right hand. Regan studied the ring. _Solid_ , she noted. _Thick edges._

"The first crack," she said aloud. _First flaw in Keri Dyson's story. First inconsistency in the evidence._

_First break in the case._

"What?" McCoy asked. He pulled his hand back and looked at the ring himself, as if trying to work out why she was so interested.

"The bruise was on the left side of Keri's face, her left eye was black," Regan said.

His gaze clouded over and he dropped his hand to the bedspread. "So?"

"So that's a right-handed punch," Regan said, leaning up on her elbow. "And that ring – that'd leave a mark at least, maybe a cut. I'll have to check the medical report to be sure, but I didn't see anything like that on her face."

"So I used the other hand," McCoy said dully.

"No, because – " Regan paused, trying to phrase the thought, then gave up. "Look, make a fist. Make like you're going to hit me."

McCoy recoiled from the suggestion, staring at her in shock.

"Look," she explained, scooting closer to him and taking his left hand in hers. "If you hit me with your left, the bruise would be on my _right_." She brought his hand to her face in illustration, his knuckles brushing her cheekbone.

He jerked his hand free from hers and shrugged. "She was turning her head," he said. "Or I took the ring off."

Regan shook her head. "If she was turning away the blow would have hit her closer to the nose. That shiner she had was a classic pop to the cheekbone. And she said in her statement that she never got any further in than the hall."

"What does that prove?" McCoy said.

"You're wearing your ring _now_ , Jack, it's not like you drop it on the hall table with your keys. And – " She took both his hands in hers, studying his knuckles. 'There's not a mark on you." She held up her own right hand, palm toward her, showing him the swollen knuckles. "If you landed those blows, your hand should look like this."

"What happened?" McCoy asked, taking her wrist to hold her hand still, studying the bruises and grazes. "Did you – " He paused, and Regan could see him trying to work out how to phrase it.

"Lose it again?" she said, helping him out. "Knock down a defendant? Or a witness?"

"Did anything happen that I need to know about?" McCoy asked, refusing her bait.

Regan looked at him a moment, seeing that he'd forgotten that he was a defendant, and her client, not the EADA and her boss. He was asking her what kind of trouble he might need to get her out of – _again_.

_And doing it as kindly as he can._

Her heart gave a little painful double beat.

"Regan?" McCoy prompted, an edge of impatience in his voice.

"I did my best to put my fist through the bathroom wall," Regan said. "I think I wanted to hit you, but you had wisely made yourself scarce." She tried to pull her hand free, but he held fast.

"Does it hurt much?" he asked, frowning.

She shrugged. "Nothing broken." She twisted her wrist free and laid her hand next to his. "See? No comparison. Take it from a brawler, Jack, you don't leave those kind of bruises without at least a bruised knuckle. No way you landed any punches Thursday night."

"I hit a woman, not a wall," he pointed out.

That was the first time he'd said it to her that baldly, and she guessed from the slight flinching around his eyes that it was the first time he'd said it out-loud to himself, either. Not _I'm going to plead guilty_ , but _I hit a woman._

Regan took the opening. "What happened?" she asked him softly.

McCoy was silent for so long she thought he wasn't going to answer. "You've read her affidavit," he said at last, looking at the ceiling, not at her.

"I have and it's bullshit. What happened?" She stretched out her hand to touch his shoulder, then hesitated and let it drop.

Another pause. Then he turned his head and met her gaze, for once without the cynicism and irony that armored him against the world. Regan read guilt in his eyes, guilt and confusion.

"I can't remember," McCoy admitted quietly. "None of it. Nothing. Two drinks at the bar and then – blank."

"Three drinks," Regan corrected.

"No, two," McCoy said.

"You had three," Regan insisted.

"I'd remember three," McCoy said shortly.

"You just said you _don't_ remember," Regan pointed out.

"I must have – somewhere after the bar, I must have had more." McCoy shook his head a little. "I had the hangover to prove it the next morning. I've never in my life been so drunk as to lose where I was, what I did. But this time …"

"If you don't know what happened, why the hell do you keep telling me you're guilty?" Regan asked, not sure whether to be bewildered or angry.

"Her story stacks up." McCoy shook his head and closed his eyes for a second. "I can't see a way out of this. Her story stacks up."

"It doesn't even come _close_ , Jack!" Regan said. "There's no way you'd do something like that."

"How do you know?" he asked.

"I smacked you right in the kisser and you didn't even raise your hand to me," Regan pointed out.

"I hadn't been drinking," McCoy said.

"If you were that kind of drunk I would have heard about it," Regan said.

"You'd think so," McCoy said. "You'd think that kind of thing can't stay a secret. But it can."

"No," Regan said, shaking her head. "No, it can't. It can be ignored, but it can't stay a secret. I'd have – "

"You don't know what you're talking about." McCoy's voice was so harsh it froze Regan to silence. "You don't have any idea what you're talking about."

He was glaring at her so angrily Regan had to take a steadying breath before she could respond. "I know you," she said. "And I know you didn't do this."

McCoy shook his head a little. "I don't believe that," he said softly.

"I know you don't," Regan said. "But I believe it enough for both of us. You can't see your way out of this? Then trust me to find one."

She reached across the little distance between them and took his hand. McCoy looked at her for a moment, his expression unreadable, and then down at her bruised hand clasping his. He shook his head. "I just want it _over_."

Regan changed tack. "You've made me part of this," she said. "You got me to file the complaint. You hired me to defend you. You just want it over? What's it going to be like for me when it is, huh?" His gaze flicked to her face and Regan tightened her hand around his. "You want to plead guilty, go directly to jail, and I'm the ADA who hung up her boss and let him get railroaded right to a cell. Thanks, Jack. I appreciate the career development."

He looked away from her. "It won't be like that."

"It will be _exactly_ like that," Regan said, refusing to give him an out. "You've put me in this. You _owe_ me the right to at least _try_ to salvage my reputation." He was silent, and she pushed it: "You owe me. You said so last night."

McCoy said nothing. Regan chose to take it as assent. "First thing we have to do is get your hands photographed," she said briskly, releasing his hand and scrambling out of bed. "I'll call Dr Rodgers. She can meet us at the M.E.'s Office and do it there. We can grab coffee and bagels on the way." She stopped at the doorway, hands on hips. "Come on, Jack. The day's not getting any younger."

She waited long enough to see him swing his legs out of bed and then went hunting for her cell to call Liz Rodgers.

She found it in her bag in the kitchen. Rodgers agreed to meet them – Regan couldn't tell if she was delighted or pissed, the M.E.'s voice always sounded exactly the same to her whatever the conversation. The call done, the sound of the shower told Regan that McCoy was at least out of bed. Regan checked her reflection in the side of his toaster, raked her fingers through her hair and sniffed her armpits. _I could use a shower, too_ , she thought. _And clean clothes_. _A detour to Abbie's?_

_No._ She'd take advantage of McCoy's co-operative mood while it lasted. Regan suspected it had as much to do with low blood sugar and exhaustion than with any faith in the strength of her arguments, and she meant to push her advantage while she had it. When McCoy appeared in the kitchen doorway, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt and with his hair still damp, Regan jerked her thumb toward the front door of the apartment.

"Let's go," she said, then, "Wait. Your phone. It's unplugged."

McCoy shrugged.

"If Arthur is trying to call you to tell you he's had Keri Dyson arrested for perverting the course of justice, don't you want to know?" Regan asked exasperatedly. She dropped her bag in the hall and went hunting in the living room for the telephone.

Phone plugged in, she was turning back to the door when something caught her eye. For a second she couldn't work out what, then she realized – it was an _absence_ that had drawn her attention. There was a square of paint on the wall a slightly darker shade than the rest where a picture of a dark-haired girl had hung the last time she was here.

Almost immediately, she saw the framed photograph, face down on the nearest bookshelf. She picked it up, gazing down at Claire Kincaid, forever laughing and young. _An astonishing woman_ , McCoy had said, _smart and idealistic_ …

And now face down where she couldn't see him, where he didn't have to look at her.

Regan touched the cold glass, wondering if she could see something else in Claire's smile, something that hadn't been there the last time she'd looked.

"Regan?" McCoy called impatiently from the hallway.

"Right there," Regan said hastily, putting the picture down as she'd found it and turning to the door.

As she steered McCoy out of the apartment, Claire Kincaid's face stuck in her mind, beautiful and happy and young. _And_ _ **smart**_ _. A better lawyer than I'll ever be._

_If she were here, I bet she'd tear the prosecution apart._

_If she were here, this would never have happened._

Maybe that was what she'd seen in the photo, the same question she'd seen on the faces of Serena, Danielle, Abbie, Sally … _How could you let this happen to him?_

As the elevator doors closed behind them and Regan felt her stomach lurch with the decent, she closed her eyes and saw Claire's reproachful face in her mind's eye.

_I'll do better_ , she promised. _I'll look out for him._

_Best I can._

* * *

.oOo.


	9. Medical Evidence

_M.E.'s Office_

_Manhattan_

_12.30 pm Sunday May 6_ _th_ _2007_

* * *

As she left the M.E.'s Office, Regan automatically turned right to walk to the subway that would take her to One Hogan Place. She had taken three steps before she remembered that her after-hours access to the DA's Office had been revoked. She stood indecisively for a moment, wondering if she should go home to Abbie's and work there or head to the Hudson University law library, until the sharp blare of a horn startled her and she realized she was standing in the way of an ambulance trying to pull into the M.E.'s ambulance bay.

Regan stepped back, and then sank down on the low wall that ran along the edge of the ambulance bay and put her head in her hands.

Liz Rodgers had taken a series of forensically impeccable photographs of McCoy's hands, documenting the absence of grazes or bruises, but she had pointed out that the pictures would have had greater evidentiary value if they'd been taken on Friday. Regan had nodded glumly, accepting the implied criticism. Although she couldn't blame herself for losing the whole of Saturday to McCoy's migraine and its sequelae, it was inarguable that she had taken too long to shake herself free from shock and start thinking like the defense attorney McCoy needed her to be.

_I'm not much of a prosecutor. I'm probably the world's worst defense attorney. Danielle Melnick would never have missed seeing Jack's hands on Friday._

Regan had another problem, not one of inexperience. _A problem Danielle and Sally Bell are probably very familiar with._

Her client was lying to her.

_Must happen to them all the time._

And it wasn't like Regan wasn't used to being lied to. Witnesses lied, defendants lied, sometimes the police lied.

_But I'm not used to being lied to by_ _**Jack.** _

She believed him when he said he didn't remember what had happened. Regan didn't understand why, even if he didn't know what had happened, he was so ready to believe Keri Dyson's allegations, but she had no doubt he was telling the truth.

_About_ _**that** _ _._

What she _couldn't_ understand was why he was adamantly sticking to the story that he only remembered having two drinks at the _Lord Roberts_. Regan herself had seen him have three. And if he and Keri had called in at another bar on the way home – or opened a bottle at his apartment – then yes, maybe he'd gotten so loaded he couldn't remember the rest of the night. But it was just plain ridiculous that two drinks would get Jack McCoy so drunk he couldn't remember a third.

_And that's how it's going to look in court_. Regan could just imagine the jury's faces as she tried to persuade them the reason the defense had no alternate theory of events because the defendant had been too blind drunk to remember what happened, but that the only witness should still not be regarded as credible. That was a big hurdle for any lawyer to clear. With a bar full of people able to testify that McCoy had had at least three drinks – contradicting his own account – she wouldn't dare put him on the stand, for fear his story of an alcohol-induced black-out would look phony.

She'd tried one more time to get him to tell her the truth on the way out of the M.E.'s building. _And that went well._ McCoy had flat-out insisted she was wrong, and when Regan had pressed him, he'd stormed off down the street.

Regan had thought twice about letting him go off on his own, but he seemed to be in better shape than he had been on Friday, and it was the middle of the day. _I'll give him an hour or so to cool off and then I'll hunt him down._

_Doesn't solve the problem._

She groaned aloud. _How am I supposed to defend him when he won't tell me the truth?_

"Regan?"

Regan looked up to see Casey Novak standing in front of her. "Casey," she said, and tried to smile. "Working Sunday?"

"Prepping Warner for testimony tomorrow," Casey said. She looked down at Regan, frowning a little, and then put her briefcase down on the wall and sat next to Regan. "Tough day?"

"Yeah," Regan said.

"Can I help?"

Regan shook her head. "You've heard about Jack?"

"Whole building's heard," Casey said.

"Well, that's what it is. It's the case. And I can't talk about it to you. You're an officer of the court. You wouldn't have protection if you were called to testify."

"But if it was hearsay, anything I could tell the court would be inadmissible," Casey said. "And _you_ have attorney-client privilege as a shield. So you don't need to worry about being forced to choose whether or not to perjure yourself."

"But if I breach confidentiality, then privilege no longer applies," Regan pointed out.

"Not if you're talking about a hypothetical situation," Casey said.

"Does that still cover us with the disciplinary committee?" Regan asked.

"Probably not," Casey said. She opened her briefcase and took out a paper-wrapped sandwich, and took a bite. "But the disciplinary committee is something to worry about _after_ you win the trial," she said with her mouthful. "Just so long as you don't give any grounds for appeal."

Regan looked sideways at her. "Do you lie awake at night thinking up loopholes?"

Casey laughed. "The rules of evidence can keep justice in a cage sometimes. Occasionally you have to – " she gestured as if pulling something apart "– _squeeze_ them open a little to let her through." She took another bite of her sandwich. "What's on your mind?"

Regan chose her words carefully. "Hypothetically. A lawyer has a client – let's call him Jack, just hypothetically – who has been charged with assault. And this hypothetical lawyer has been told by her hypothetical client that on the night in question, he was so drunk he couldn't remember anything. He said that normally that never happens. That he must have been drunker than ever in his life. That when he woke up he had the hangover to prove it."

Casey chewed and swallowed. "So?"

"So he says – this hypothetical client says – he remembers having two drinks at the bar, and then he doesn't remember anything else."

"Two drinks wouldn't make Jack McCoy drunk," Casey said. She took another bite. "Was he drinking beforehand?"

"He says no. And – Casey, I _saw_ him –"

Casey held up her hand. "I think you mean to say, this _hypothetical lawyer_ saw him. Actually, maybe the hypothetical lawyer was told by somebody who saw him."

"Right. Anyway, according to what somebody told this lawyer –" Regan paused, trying to keep track of the degrees of separation. "He had at least three drinks in the bar. And he'd remember a third drink, right? I mean – he's not a lightweight."

"Two drinks, no recollection of what happened next?" Casey said. She finished her sandwich and stood up. "Come on."

Regan got to her feet. "Where are we going?"

"Back inside. You need to talk to somebody."

Regan followed Casey back into the M.E.'s Office and down the long, dimly lit corridors. Casey knocked on the door of an examination room and opened it without waiting for an answer.

Regan knew Melinda Warner by sight, although they'd never been introduced. The doctor didn't offer to shake hands when Casey performed the introductions and Regan wondered if the other woman was used to people being reluctant to clasp the fingers of someone who dug around inside dead people for a living.

"Melinda," Casey said. "Someone has a few drinks in a bar, can't remember anything past the first two, woke up the next morning with no idea what happened the night before."

Warner looked at Regan, frowning slightly. "I can draw some blood for a tox screen," she said. "It's best done as soon a possible. Roll up your sleeve."

"A tox screen?" Regan asked. "Hang on. First off, it's not me. Casey's not talking about me. It's – a friend of mine."

"Then your friend needs to go to the E.R. She needs a tox screen and, I'm sorry to have to tell you, she should have an S.A.E. as well." Warner rested her hands on the stainless steel table. "Casey can arrange for the SVU detectives to meet her there, so she can make a report. Did it happen last night?"

"No – last week – an S.A.E.?"

"A Sexual Assault Examination," Warner explained gently.

"I know – I know what an SAE is," Regan said impatiently. "I'm asking – why?"

"You've just described the classic symptoms of GHB," Melinda Warner said. "Gamma-Hydroxybutyric acid. It's a date rape drug. It causes a sense of well-being and relaxation, similar to alcoholic intoxication, followed by enhanced libido, reduced inhibition, and then drowsiness. It also causes memory lapses, amnesia. The next day, it's like a bad hangover – nausea, headache, irritability."

"Holy – " Regan whispered. "And there's a test for it?"

"It clears out of the body pretty quickly. Sometimes even the next morning is too late," Warner said. "If it happened last week then I'm afraid your friend has probably left it too late for a successful prosecution. She should make a complaint anyway, though. Whoever drugged her could very well be a serial offender – and they often target the same bars and nightclubs. SVU builds profiles of these kinds of attackers. Your friend could help them get this guy, even if they can't arrest him for what he did to her."

Regan looked from the doctor's sympathetic gaze to Casey. "Thanks, Casey," she said. "I'm going to ask you to step out now and give me a few moments with Dr Warner."

"I thought you might," Casey said. "I've got to get back to the office, anyway. Good luck, Regan. There's a lot of us pulling for you."

When the door had closed behind the SVU prosecutor , Regan put her briefcase down on the examination table and clicked open the locks. "Dr Warner, Casey and I haven't been entirely honest with you. This didn't just happen to a friend of mine. It happened to a client."

Warner took a step backwards and folded her arms. "According to the rumor mill, you only have one client," she said.

"For once, the rumor mill is right," Regan said. She took the file of Keri Dyson's compliant from her briefcase.

Warner held up her hands. "Before you say anything or show me anything, you need to know I'm not some professional 'expert witness' for hire by the defense."

"I won't call you to the stand," Regan said. "I just want your opinion."

" _You_ might not call me," Warner said. "But you signed in here today. If whoever's prosecuting this case checks those logs then they'll ask everyone in the building who you saw. And if the prosecution puts me on the stand, I'll tell the truth."

Regan paused. "I understand that," she said. "But Jack's innocent. So there's no way the truth can hurt him."

Warner rested her hands on the table and leaned forward a little, gaze steady on Regan's face. "I've spent most of my career finding ways to prove that women aren't lying when they accuse men of attacking them," she said. "Whatever the stereotype about the vindictive, lying bitch. And every court case comes complete with the wife or girlfriend or sister saying 'He's innocent, he'd never do this'."

"I know," Regan said. "I'm not asking for your blind faith. I'm asking for your scientific opinion."

"You've got enough blind faith for the both of us?" Warner said dryly.

"Not blind," Regan said.

Warner shook her head, silently disagreeing, but she didn't protest again when Regan laid the file down on the examination table and flipped it open. "Doctor," she said, "Can this drug – GHB – does it make people aggressive?"

"No," Warner said decisively. "Affectionate, drowsy – not aggressive." She made no move to reach for the file. "An intoxication defense won't fly."

"Okay," Regan said. "What's your opinion of these injuries?"

Finally, reluctantly, Warner picked up the file. She tilted the photographs toward the light and scrutinized them for a moment. "At least three separate blows," she said at last, voice coolly professional. "Two to the eye area and one to the mouth. From the location of the bruises I infer the assailant was right-handed. I can see some bruising to the throat consistent with the victim having been restrained with the left hand around her neck. Does that paint a clear enough picture for you?"

"Pretty clear," Regan said. "Dr Warner, was whoever hit her wearing a ring?"

"Possibly on the left hand," Warner said. "But I doubt on the right. Even a small ring would leave an imprint, probably a cut, with blows of this force." She studied the photographs a moment longer and then put them down and picked up the doctor's report from Mercy E.R. "He hit her hard enough to fracture her eye socket, according to the E.R. doctor."

"He?" Regan said.

"It's not impossible for a woman to hit this hard," Warner said. "But I would rank it as extremely unlikely."

"If I told you that Jack McCoy wears a ring on his right hand, would you consider it likely that he'd inflicted these injuries?" Regan asked.

"I couldn't offer a professional opinion in court based on photographs," Warner said. She scanned the doctor's report again. "The attending doctor didn't record any cuts or grazes, but that doesn't mean they might not have been there." She paused. "Now _there's_ a blast from the past. Rob Jordan treated Ms Dyson. I haven't seen him since he went down to Baltimore. I didn't even know he was back in the city."

"He's a friend?" Regan asked.

"We went to medical school together," Warner said.

"Good enough friend to give him a call?" Regan suggested.

"Now, hold on," Warner said, putting the file down with a snap. "There's _no_ friend who's a good enough friend to ask to breach doctor-patient confidentiality."

"No, no, no!" Regan said quickly. "Not confidentiality. The report is in evidence. Dyson's _waived_ her confidentiality. I can subpoena the doctor and he'll have to testify, at least about the report. I just want to know – will he talk to me, if I go see him?"

Warner hesitated again. "Well, all right," she said. "I can't see that doing any harm."

Regan waited while Warner dialed a number and spoke to the desk clerk at Mercy. Sooner than Regan expected, Warner hung up, and she was frowning.

"He's not there," Warner said.

"Different shift?" Regan asked.

"No," Warner said. "He doesn't work there." She shook her head, looking puzzled. "Not even on the casual roster."

"Then what's his name doing on the report?" Regan asked. "Do you have a number for him in Baltimore?"

"Somewhere," Warner said, and shrugged. "Like I said, we haven't been in contact."

"Do you think you could dig it out and give him a call?" Regan asked. "And let me know?"

"Sure," Warner said. "I'd like to know what he's doing signing medical reports at a hospital where he doesn't work, myself."

Regan gathered her papers together and put them back in her briefcase. "Thanks for your help, Dr Warner," she said.

"Remember what I told you," Warner said. "I won't lie for you, not in court."

"I know," Regan said. "I won't need you to. I have an innocent client."

"You're not the first defense attorney to tell me that," Warner said.

"I could just be the first to be right, though," Regan said, holding the M.E.'s gaze.

After a moment, Warner gave the tiniest of nods.

As Regan headed back up the long corridor that led to the outside world, she felt irrationally exhilarated. Persuading Melinda Warner to admit at least the _possibility_ of McCoy's innocence meant more than just the M.E.'s help.

_If I can win her over, then maybe – just maybe – I can do the same with the twelve citizens in the jury box._

_Maybe._

For the first time, Regan began to think it was possible. For the first time, she felt like she had a fighting chance.

* * *

.oOo.


	10. Wrong Side Of The Aisle

_Arraignment Court_

_11 am Monday May 7_ _th_ _2007_

* * *

Regan nearly turned left as she passed through the gate into the front of the courtroom. She hoped the slight stumble as she saw Connie Rubirosa standing at the prosecutor's lectern, and realized her mistake, wasn't too obvious.

She hoped as well that no-one could spot the nervous sweat beading her hairline and trickling between her shoulder-blades. _And that my hands don't shake when I need to handle documents and that my voice doesn't crack and that I don't throw up._

All of those catastrophes seemed entirely possible as Regan set her briefcase on the table provided for defense attorneys and turned to double check that McCoy had followed her and was standing in the spot assigned to defendants.

He had. Regan thought that he looked about as sick to his stomach as she was to hers. _Not nerves in his case_ , she guessed. When it came to courtroom combat, Jack McCoy didn't have a nerve in his body. _If I feel out of place on this side of the aisle, how must he feel?_

"Docket ending number 2-7-4," the clerk read out. "People v John James McCoy, assault in the second degree."

A quick buzz of whispering went around the courtroom. Regan ignored it. _Don't blink, don't back down_ , she remembered her Gran-Da telling her when she started on foot-patrol. _Never let them see you're frightened._ She straightened her shoulders and said in her best calm _I'm-a-police-officer-and-you-aren't-so-back-the-hell-up_ voice:"Your honor, Regan Markham. I represent the defendant."

"I know who you are, Ms Markham," Judge Antonia Mellon said, peering over the top of her glasses at first Regan, then McCoy. "And I take it from your presence that this is not the elaborate practical joke I first presumed?"

"There's nothing amusing about these charges, your honor," Connie Rubirosa said. "The victim suffered serious injuries to her face and head, and could have been killed or disabled by the assault."

"Injuries not caused by Mr. McCoy, your honor," Regan countered.

Judge Mellon cut them both off with a rap of the gavel. "Why does everybody think that trying their case in arraignment is the way to go? No, don't answer that, it was rhetorical. Mr. McCoy. Do you understand the charges against you?"

Regan glanced at McCoy, waiting for him to answer. His lips moved soundlessly, and then Regan saw his Adam's apple move convulsively as he swallowed hard, cleared his throat, and said firmly: "I do, your honor."

"And how do you plead?" the judge asked.

Regan held her breath. Over the past twenty-four hours she'd swung from being ninety percent certain McCoy would do as she asked and plead 'not guilty' to being seventy percent certain he'd play along with her right up to this point and then chose the hair-shirt Dr Margolis had referred to.

The previous evening's case conference had done nothing to set her mind at rest. _Partly my fault_. Regan had chickened out of telling McCoy in advance about the 'Jack McCoy Defense League'. He'd arrived at Abbie's expecting Regan, possibly Abbie as well – and the look on his face when he'd walked into the dining room to see Nora, Serena, Danielle and Sally sitting around the table had been a Kodak moment Regan didn't want to remember. Shock, then anger.

What had puzzled Regan was that for an instant before his brows had drawn together in a thunderous scowl, she had thought that the expression on Jack McCoy's face had been … horror.

_Surprise, anger – predicable. But he looked as if the five of us at that table was his worst nightmare._

Then the anger, and the shouting, and Regan had been treated to a quick historical insight into Jack McCoy and Sally Bell. The two of them leaning towards each other over the dining room table, McCoy propped on his clenched fists, Sally poking him sharply in the chest with her finger, both shouting … then Danielle had gotten in on the act, barely coming up to McCoy's shoulder even in her heels but not in the slightest bit afraid of him. With Sally shouting at him from across the table and Danielle waving her finger in his face, McCoy had spun on his heel and headed for the door. When Regan bolted after him, catching him up in the hallway, she'd had to grab his arm to stop him. He'd turned, glaring at her.

Regan hadn't let him get a word out of his mouth before she jabbed him hard in the chest with one finger. She'd had no idea what she was going to say or how she was going to say it until the words fell out of her mouth. _You owe me,_ hard as nails.

She'd gotten McCoy back into the room, where he sat at one end of the table, leaning back in his chair with his arms folded tight across his chest, the air of _I-don't-want-to-_ _ **be**_ _-here_ radiating off him impossible to ignore. Even Regan's speculation about GHB hadn't broken his mood. McCoy had pointed out the lack of supporting evidence, and when Regan had gone over the absence of any marks on McCoy's hands or any ring imprint on Keri Dyson's face, McCoy had seemed almost to take enjoyment out of demolishing her argument, as clinically as he might have in court.

Finally, Serena Southerlyn had leaned forward, almost pleading with him, saying _but don't you see, Jack, you were framed, this is a set-up_.

McCoy's response had come in a tone so cutting the usually perfectly composed attorney had been forced to blink away tears. _The last argument of a desperate and incompetent lawyer, Serena – my client was framed. I see my judgment was correct when I let Arthur fire you._

That had been the end of the meeting.

"Mr. McCoy," Judge Mellon said, recalling Regan to the present. "How do you plead?"

"Not guilty, your honor," McCoy said in a monotone that to Regan's ears completely lacked conviction.

_At least it's on the record._ Regan blew out a silent breath of relief.

"Do the people want to be heard on bail?" Mellon asked.

"The charges are serious, carrying a prison sentence," Connie Rubirosa said.

"And will be vigorously defended," Regan countered promptly. "Mr. McCoy is not flight risk. He has been a prosecutor in Manhattan for more than twenty years. He's well-known, especially to New York's criminal classes. Remand pending trial would be inappropriate, and is unnecessary, given that Mr. McCoy's only priority is to clear his name of these false charges and return to his job. We ask for R.O.R, your honor."

"Ms Rubirosa?" Mellon asked.

"I have to ask for bail at one hundred thousand, your honor," Connie said.

Regan turned to look at her, aware out of the corner of her eye that Mellon was staring over her glasses at the prosecutor as well. _I_ _ **have**_ _to ask?_

"Excessive, your honor," Regan said.

"I agree," Mellon said. "Mr. McCoy has caused both the criminal classes and the judicial classes of New York a certain amount of heartburn over the years, but I would be hard pressed to name a citizen with a greater reputation of respect for legal process. Release on own recognizance ordered."

"Order for discovery, your honor?" Regan said promptly.

"So ordered." _Bang_! Went the gavel.

"Your honor, I'd like to be heard on the question of a speedy trial," McCoy said.

" _No you_ _ **wouldn't**_ ," Regan hissed in a whisper.

McCoy ignored her. " _Barker v Wingo_ , your honor, stipulates – "

"Mr. McCoy," Antonia Mellon said, staring at him incredulously. "This has to be the first time I've had a defendant try to argue for a speedy trial _at arraignment_."

"Determinations must be made on a case-by-case basis," McCoy said.

"Yes, I've read _Barker v Wingo_ ," Mellon snapped. "And you know very well a speedy trial motion is for the trial judge, not for me. I'll tell you what – I'll set it down for trial on Judge Wright's calendar, and you can argue this out before him. See his clerk for a chambers hearing, Ms Markham."

"Yes, your honor," Regan said numbly.

_Bang!_ went the gavel again. Regan turned to McCoy and grabbed his arm.

"What the _hell_ are you playing at?" she snapped.

McCoy turned as if he was going to answer her, and then froze, staring over her shoulder.

"Docket ending number 2-7-5," the clerk read out. "People v Keri Dyson, coercion in the second degree."

Regan turned to see Keri Dyson coming toward them, accompanied by a stout woman who looked far too old to be a practicing lawyer. The bruises had ripened on Keri's face, blossoming to purple, although her eye hadn't swollen nearly as much as Regan would have expected.

Keri saw McCoy and Regan and shrank back. "Don't let him near me!" she cried, clutching the older woman's arm in fear.

"Your honor, Lanie Stieglitz for the defense," the old lady said, her firm voice belying her apparent advanced age. "As my client is currently in the process of applying for a restraining order against Mr. McCoy, I ask that you have him removed from the courtroom."

_Thank god this isn't something the jury can see_ , Regan thought. Keri stared at McCoy, lower lip trembling, as her lawyer put an arm protectively around her and glared at Regan and McCoy both, as if she expected to have to interpose her aging, fragile body between her client and McCoy's frenzied attack. And then – _if this is the show they put on at arraignment, what_ _ **is**_ _the jury going to see?_

The thought made her sick, and distracted her just enough for McCoy to lean past her.

"Lanie …" McCoy said quietly.

"I advise you not to enter into any inappropriate _ex parte_ communication with my client or myself, Mr. McCoy," Lanie Stieglitz said sternly. And then, hissed too quietly for any but McCoy and Regan to hear: "And you make me _sick_ , Jack McCoy, when I think of all those fine self-righteous speeches about defending the helpless and prosecuting abusers."

Regan got her shoulder in between McCoy and the two women. "Let me caution you in turn, Ms Stie – Ms Stege – "

"Stieglitz," the lawyer said tightly.

Regan felt herself blush. "You client is a witness against mine," she went on, trying to regain a tone of authority, "Just as mine is against yours. I'd hate for there to be any concerns about interfering with prosecution witnesses raised at Ms Dyson's trial."

"If you've all quite finished," Judge Mellon interrupted from the bench. "Ms Markham, get your client out of here. Ms Stieglitz, save your theatrics for the jury. Ms Dyson, do you understand the charges against you?"

As Keri answered in a quavering voice that she did, Regan grabbed McCoy's arm and pulled him away, towing him up the aisle of the courtroom and out into the corridor.

"Okay," she said, steering him through the press of people to a window where the corner gave some privacy to those able to keep their voices down. "What the hell? Speedy trial?"

McCoy looked blankly at her. "Do you know Lanie Stieglitz?" he asked.

"No," Regan said shortly. "But I'm getting the feeling that before this is over, Lanie Stieglitz and I are going to develop a pretty intense relationship."

"She doesn't work much these days," McCoy said. "Just the cases that really interest her. She's always specialized in women's rights – defending battered women accused of murder, that sort of thing."

"Good for her," Regan said impatiently. "Now let's talk about Barker and fucking Wingo and what the hell you thought you were doing opening your mouth in there to say anything other than yes-your-honor-not-guilty."

"Lanie and I have never seen eye to eye on a lot of things," McCoy said, continuing to ignore her. "But we always respected each other's position. And I never felt that she – "

Regan's hand itched to slap him. _He's not going to jail_ , she thought grimly, _because in about ten seconds I am going to throttle the life out of him right here in the courthouse hallway._ "Snap out of it, Jack!" she said sharply. "She's defending a client in a case where you're the sole witness for the prosecution! Stop letting her screw with your head!"

McCoy shook his head. "Lanie's never taken a case she doesn't agree with," he said. "Or a defendant she doesn't believe. That's her strength – and her weakness." He kept shaking his head. "She wouldn't take Keri as a client unless she was convinced that – that I – "

Regan laid her hand along the side of his face, stopping the repetitive motion. She could feel the pulse pounding in his neck. "Do not come unglued on me here, Jack," she ordered him very calmly. "Let's go home and talk about all of this there."

"You need to see Judge Wright's clerk," McCoy said. He covered her hand with his own, and Regan wasn't sure if there was a second's hesitation before he pulled her fingers away from his face. "Get a chambers hearing tomorrow on speedy trial. I can prep you for it tonight and – "

"I don't _want_ a speedy trial!" Regan said a little too loudly. She glanced around to make sure there were no ADA's in immediate earshot and then lowered her voice. "I need time to work the case, investigate Keri Dyson, investigate the evidence, I'm not _ready_."

"My case," McCoy said. "My rules. Or I can get myself a new lawyer and you can get yourself a new job."

* * *

.oOo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that Lanie Stieglitz would probably not still be practicing in 2007, but on the other hand, the actress who played her, Elaine Stritch, was still working, so …


	11. Fair Hearing

_Judge William Wright's Chambers_

_8.30 am Tuesday May 8_ _th_ _2007_

* * *

"Is this your idea, Ms Markham?" Judge Wright asked.

"It's my motion, your honor," Regan temporized. She blinked gritty eyes and wished she'd had another two or three hours of sleep. _On the upside, for the three days until I forget it all, I'll know more about speedy trial motions than the rest of the New York Bar Association put together._

Jack McCoy was an excellent and merciless tutor, and he was determined that Regan win this argument. He'd turned Abbie's dining room into his school-room, carting over boxes of books from his own apartment and grilling Regan on the intricacies of case law and legislation. He'd tried to rope Abbie in to play the part of the ADA opposing the motion , but she had flatly refused, telling him he was mad to press for trial before his lawyers had worked out a strategy and mad to think that keeping his attorney up until four in the morning was a good way to win _anything_.

_Didn't stop him._ McCoy had taken the parts of both the ADA _and_ the judge and quizzed Regan until she was ready to cry from frustration and sheer weariness. Seeing her eyes fill with tears, McCoy had inquired acidly if she thought crying at the judge was a winning strategy?

At which point Regan had done what she probably should have done hours before: told him to go fuck himself, and gone to bed.

Now her mind felt thick and gluey, her thought struggling to move in a head crammed full of fact and precedent.

_At least my client isn't here to stick another spanner in the works._

Judge Wright chuckled at Regan's careful choice of words. "Smart clients who know the law are a pain in the ass, aren't they?"

"Far be it for me to disagree with your honor," Regan said smoothly. "However, leaving aside any judicial opinions on the nature and location of pains that clients can cause their lawyers, I am here to argue on behalf of my client that he has the right, under the constitution, further defined by _Barker v Wingo_ , to a speedy trial, which in this case would be a trial in the first possible gap in your calendar, your honor."

"The People have no objection," Connie Rubirosa said. Regan turned to stare at her in mingled astonishment and horror. _First of all, since when did the D.A.'s Office want to be rushed into court? The longer we –_ _ **they**_ _– have to build a case the better it is for the prosecution. Secondly –_

_Secondly, I was counting on the D.A.'s Office resistance to save me from being rushed into court with nothing more than a handful of speculation just because my client seems to have the criminal defendant's version of a deathwish._

"There are implications beyond this single trial at play here, your honor," Rubirosa went on. "The reputation of the D.A.'s Office – "

"The political future of the man sitting _in_ the D.A.'s office," Judge Wright said shrewdly. "Your boss happy to get this off the front pages as quickly as possible, eh?"

"I'm sure I don't know what you might mean," Rubirosa said calmly.

Regan leaned closer to Rubirosa. "Connie, are you sure about this?" she asked, keeping her voice low so the judge wouldn't hear her.

"Are _you_?" Rubirosa returned.

" _I'm_ sure," Wright said, and chuckled at the two attorney's look of surprise. "For future reference in my courtroom, ladies – I can hear a pin drop on a carpeted floor, metaphorically at least. Well, let's see. We have a speedy trial motion from the defense, uncontested by the prosecution – must be a first." He turned a few pages of his diary. "Fortunately for you, Ms Markham – although perhaps I should say _unfortunately_ , given the look on your face – your colleague Tracey Kibre just persuaded one of Manhattan's less upstanding citizens to take a plea. How does Thursday sound?"

Regan swallowed hard. "Better than any defense attorney could hope for, your honor."

The gaze he gave her was shrewd. "Ms Markham, if it weren't for the rules governing _ex parte_ communication, I might be tempted to give you some advice."

Regan managed to smile. "They do say it's the thought that counts, your honor."

"Given, however, that we do work within the boundaries set down by the Supreme Court, I will dispense some pearls of judicial wisdom to _both_ the defense and prosecution. Pay attention, ladies. I know that this case is not run-of-the-mill for either of you. However, this is _my_ courtroom, and I will not permit the identity of the defendant, the media interest, or anything else, hijack the criminal justice system. I have had the dubious pleasure of watching Jack McCoy tap-dance his way across very thin ice in my courtroom more than once – settle down, Ms Markham, I don't hold any grudges – and I have ever confidence that as a defendant he'll be just as prone to push the envelope. I won't have this trial turned into Jack McCoy's personal circus, or a media circus, or Mr. Arthur Branch's re-election platform. Am I completely clear?"

Regan nodded, and Rubirosa said: "Crystal, your honor."

As the two attorneys left Wright's chambers for the busy morning bustle of the courtroom corridors, Rubirosa touched Regan's arm. "You okay?" she asked. "You look a little – "

"I'm going to be sick!" Regan blurted, realizing it. She clapped her hand over her mouth and Rubirosa grabbed her elbow and steered her quickly across the corridor to the door marked 'Women'.

Regan made it to the basin before throwing up the toast and coffee she'd choked down before leaving Abbie's that morning.

Rubirosa waited a tactful moment before asking: "Are you alright?"

Regan nodded, not trusting her voice. She ran the tap and splashed water over her face. As she blinked her vision clear she saw Rubirosa holding out a handful of paper towels.

"Thanks." Regan wiped her face dry.

"Stomach flu?" Rubirosa asked.

"No," Regan said. "I'm just – " She stopped, remembering that this was not Connie Rubirosa, distant-but-friendly colleague, but ADA Rubirosa, second chair on the other side of the aisle. "I'm fine."

"You've got a tough gig," Rubirosa said, leaning against the wall with her arms folded.

"Yours is tougher," Regan said. "At least I'm on the right side of this."

Rubirosa hesitated. "You sound very certain," she said, and Regan wondered if it was her imagination or if there was a question in the ADA's voice.

"I am, Connie," Regan said. She wadded up the paper towels and threw them in the trash.

"You're – _close_ – to Jack," Rubirosa said. "It's natural you'd think that."

"Are you asking for a preview of my case?" Regan asked.

"From the look on your face when I folded my hand in there, you don't _have_ a case."

"From the look on your face in arraignment yesterday, you're not so sure you have one either," Regan said, and knew she'd hit home when Rubirosa stiffened.

"Then your job ought to be easy," Rubirosa said. "If you're sure we don't have a case, put us to proof and get your 'not guilty' verdict."

"It's not good enough," Regan said. "This is already tabloid fodder. You might not make your case, but it will still follow Jack around for the rest of his career – his _life_. Will Joe Citizen think that 'not proven' is the same as 'innocent'?"

Rubirosa studied the toes of her shoes. "We're going to bring the case to trial, Regan," she said.

"You and Michael Cutter," Regan said. She remembered Serena's briefing on Michael 'Cut-throat' Cutter: hard-working, impressive conviction record, ruthlessly willing to exploit weakness in witnesses or opponents to get a win in court. _He likes to win_ , Serena had said, and when Danielle Melnick had laughed and said that _everybody_ liked to win, Serena had shaken her head. _There's things I won't do, that_ _ **you**_ _won't do. Even things that_ _ **Jack**_ _won't do, although I've never worked out what. Word around the water-cooler in Narcotics is that there's_ _ **nothing**_ _Cutter won't do._

Regan came back to the present as Rubirosa nodded, looking troubled. "He's never worked with Jack," she said. "Not even as much as me, and I only tried that one case with him last year."

Regan nodded, remembering that Rubirosa had been one of the ADA's who'd been churned-and-burned by McCoy in the months immediately after Alex Borgia's death.

"Branch – " Rubirosa said, then stopped. She took a quick step the side and looked under the doors of the stalls, making sure they were alone. "Branch promised him Jack's job if he wins the case," she said on a rush. "And all he knows about Jack is – all he knows is that he's a defendant. And Mike throws defendants in jail. By hook or by crook."

Regan absorbed the warning, nodding slowly. "Why did you fold so fast on speedy trial?" she asked.

"Mike is happy to get Dyson on the stand before her bruises fade," Rubirosa said.

"Does he trust you?" Regan asked.

Rubirosa laughed a little unhappily. "He _won't_ if he gets wind of this conversation."

"Then play it straight," Regan said. "You don't know me. And that's easy, because Connie, you _don't_ , not really, not to have a cup of coffee even. Work the case. Let Mike Cutter know you're coloring inside the lines."

"Protect myself," Rubirosa said a little bitterly.

"Make sure that when you put your point of view to him he doesn't dismiss it out of hand," Regan said quietly. "I was hoping for a fair hearing from the D.A's Office on this. Not special consideration, but not a jihad either."

Rubirosa shook her head. "You won't get it from Mike."

"He might not give _me_ a fair hearing," Regan said. "So make sure he gives _you_ one."

Rubirosa nodded, her expression telling Regan that it wasn't likely. Before she could say anything else, however, the door swung open and a pair of ADA's from Fraud hurried in, forestalling any further conversation.

Regan picked up her briefcase from the floor. When she straightened, Connie Rubirosa was gone.

* * *

.oOo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Those of you familiar with the law will know that I have misused the concept of 'speedy trial' for the purposes of this story, as I did in "Ghosts". In New York, statute defines the right to a speedy trial as requiring the prosecution to be ready for trial within six months on all felonies except murder, but just as I have spared the readers endless descriptions of people brushing their teeth and catching the subway to work, accidentally stepping on gum and picking up their dry-cleaning, I have spared myself six months of trial preparation.


	12. Private Practice

_Mickey's Diner_

_102 Centre St_

_10 am Tuesday May 8_ _th_ _2007_

* * *

Regan reached for another packet of sugar from the bowl on the table and then put it back. She'd already reduced three to shreds of paper and piles of white crystal as she waited.

_Briscoe said ten, right?_ She checked the note she'd written on a post-it to be sure. _Yeah, ten._

The veteran homicide detective had been sympathetic when Regan had called him late yesterday as she waited for McCoy to finish unpacking the boxes of law books he'd brought to Abbie's house. Just remembering the comfort she'd felt at the sound of his voice, warm and reassuring, made Regan's eyes prickle with threatening tears. She wished futilely that he could work the case for her.

But there was no way he could. He hadn't offered, and Regan hadn't asked. Instead, he'd told her there was a former homicide detective, working private now for family reasons, who she could trust and rely on.

Regan looked again at the post-it note. _Rey Curtis._

Briscoe had even called Curtis for her, to make sure the man would take the case, no matter how much other work he might have.

So here she was, sitting in a booth in Mickey's Diner across the road from the courthouse, in the corner at the back where she and this private detective would have some privacy, waiting for Briscoe's retired partner.

The door opened and she looked up expectantly, then felt her shoulders slump as a tall man came into the diner, too young to be the retired cop she was waiting for. She checked the note again. _Definitely ten._ She looked at her watch. _One minute past. Okay, so not really late._ It _felt_ like he was late to Regan.

"Ms Markham?" a voice asked, smooth as a café latte sweetened with honey.

Regan looked up to see the man she'd watched come into the diner looking down at her. Up close, he wasn't quite as young as she'd thought. _But even better looking._ The strength of his jaw was just enough counterpoint to his liquid eyes and full mouth. Regan might have guessed he was a model, but she could see the edge of a shoulder holster beneath the lapel of his jacket. "That's me," she said.

He held out his hand. "I'm Rey Curtis. Lennie Briscoe told me to meet you here."

"Oh!" Regan shook his hand, and gestured to the seat opposite her. "I'm sorry, I was expecting – "

"Someone older?" Curtis guessed, smiling. He sat down. "I took early retirement."

" _Very_ early," Regan said, returning his smile.

"My wife needed more of my time," Curtis explained. He put extra stress on the word _wife_ and Regan realized he was letting her know right up front that he was a devoted husband. _Does he think I'm going to jump him right here in the diner?_ she wondered, a little amused. Then she took another look at him and thought that maybe Rey Curtis _did_ have legitimate reasons to put immediate roadblocks in the path of female attention.

"Lennie said you were good," Regan said.

"That's high praise," Curtis said. "I'll try to live up to his recommendation."

"Did he tell you why I was looking to hire you?" Regan asked, taking a contract form and a pen out of her briefcase.

"Criminal defense," Curtis said. "I have to tell you, Ms Markham, I don't really do that kind of work."

"What do you do?" Regan asked.

"Missing persons, mostly," Curtis said. He shrugged. "There's not a lot of – _moral ambiguity_ – in missing persons. Someone's missing, you do your best to find them. I do some divorce work, too, from time to time. Mostly tracking assets."

"Not sitting in cars outside motels?" Regan asked.

"I did enough of that as a _cop_ ," Curtis said.

Regan caught the way his gaze slid away from hers as he said it and guessed there was more to it than that, but she didn't push it. "You don't have to worry about moral ambiguity here, Mr. Curtis. I have an innocent client who has been framed." She pushed the contract across the table to him and held out the pen. "Sign, please."

"I haven't decided to take your case," Curtis objected.

"And the contract doesn't oblige you to. But it does mean that if you're subpoenaed by the prosecution you won't be able to answer any questions about this conversation."

Curtis hesitated, and took the pen. "Framed, huh?" He signed his name in small, neat writing. "By the police? Because I have to tell you – "

"By the complaining witness," Regan said. "My client is Jack McCoy, Mr. Curtis. I believe you know him."

He pushed the contract back toward her, pen laid on top of it, before answering. "I've read something in the papers about Jack being in some kind of trouble."

Regan gave him a succinct outline of the case so far, the allegations, her speculations about the GHB, and their impossible deadline.

"With all due respect, Ms Markham, that all sounds kind of far-fetched," Curtis said when she'd finished.

"I know," Regan said. "That's why I need to prove it. Or at least some of it. By Thursday. By Friday, at the latest."

"Tall order," Curtis said. He was not looking at her as he spoke, and Regan felt her heart sink.

"Something on your mind, detective?" she asked bluntly.

He _did_ look at her then. "It's Mr. Curtis now."

"Something on your mind, _Mr. Curtis_?"

"Yes," he said. "This whole story – it doesn't make sense. It sounds like the kind of thing defense lawyers come up with when they don't have anything else. You make it sound like this woman _planned_ the whole thing. Did she just _happen_ to have a Mickey Finn in her handbag? And if McCoy _didn't_ hit her, who did? And why would she have this kind of a grudge against him, to go so far to set him up?"

"I don't have the answer to any of those questions," Regan said. "That's why I need to hire you." She leaned forward. "Look. I agree, there are a lot of unanswered questions, and a lot of things that don't make sense. But you _know_ Jack McCoy. Do you think he did this?"

"I knew McCoy nearly ten years ago," Curtis said. "I know he was raised a Catholic, but didn't live the kind of life the church _approves_ of. I know he used to drink more than maybe he should have. I know he had a temper." He studied her. "And from the look on your face, I can guess that none of that has changed. But how do I know what _has_?"

"I can tell you, Jack hasn't changed into the kind of man who beats on women," Regan said.

"You're absolutely sure?" Curtis said.

" _Absolutely_ ," Regan said.

He gave a little laugh. "I never could figure out how a man like him could get so many women twisted around his little finger."

"I'm not twisted around his little finger," Regan said tartly. "I work with him, that's all."

"Yeah, that's what Claire used to say, too," Curtis said. "Until they couldn't hide it any more."

"I'm not Claire Kincaid," Regan said, rubbing her forehead. _Obviously._ Curiosity tugged at her, and she hesitated, and then asked: "You knew her well?"

"She was a nice lady. I didn't always agree with her politics, but I liked her. _Everybody_ liked her." He shrugged. "I was in Homicide, she was an ADA. I wouldn't say I knew her _well_."

"Would you say you knew _Jack_ well?" Regan said.

Curtis paused. "No," he said.

"Well, _I_ do." Regan held his gaze. "And I _know_ he didn't do this. So will you help me out here?"

Curtis nodded slowly. "Okay," he said.

"I need answers to all those questions you raised. I need to know where she got the drugs, who her dealer is. I need to know why she picked Jack, I need to know how she faked the attack. And I need proof that he's innocent."

"I'll work up a background on her for you," Curtis said. "Talk to her friends, her neighbors. It's not going to be easy to find her dealer, though."

"Do your best," Regan said.

"Does Jack have security cameras in his building?"

"I don't know. He has a doorman," Regan said.

"I'll find out. There might be footage of Dyson leaving, or maybe a witness. If she was uninjured … "

"That'd be good," Regan said.

"If I find something that _doesn't_ support your theory," Curtis said, "Ms Markham, the prosecution can't force me to violate privilege – but if you put me on the stand, I'm not going to perjure myself. I wouldn't do it for Jack McCoy when I was a cop, and I won't do it now."

"I won't ask you to," Regan promised.

"Alright," Curtis said. "I'll call you first thing tomorrow with an update and we'll take it from there."

"I appreciate this, detect – _Mr. Curtis_ ," Regan said, standing as he did. "Thank you."

"Thank Lennie Briscoe," Curtis said. "He told me I should help you. That you were stand-up."

Regan felt herself blush a little. "I'll try to deserve that," she said, pleased.

Curtis showed her his dazzling smile again. "Living up to Lennie's expectations isn't a bad guide for life."

* * *

.oOo.


	13. Diminished Capacity

_Abbie Carmichaels' Townhouse_

_10 am Tuesday May 8_ _th_ _2007_

* * *

Jack McCoy rubbed his eyes. Fatigue weighed on him, but he knew he had no chance of catching a nap. He'd managed to get a few hours of sleep the previous night after Regan had stormed upstairs to her bed, tossing and turning on Abbie's couch, but his eyes had been wide open well before dawn.

_Don't, John, stop it, don't, please –_

No matter how he tried, he couldn't bring that Thursday night clear. He clenched his fist and studied it, trying to imagine it smashing into Keri Dyson's face. Imagination failed.

Regan's desperate theory that he'd been drugged made a lot less sense to him than his own conviction that he couldn't remember because he couldn't _bear_ to. _What a man,_ he thought sickly. _Man enough to beat a woman, not man enough to face what you've done_.

He _could_ imagine Keri being hit – could imagine her terrified face – could imagine looking up as a man with huge hands pushed her against the wall and pulled back one big fist and –

Couldn't imagine that fist being the one at the end of his arm.

_But it was._

The one time John McCoy senior had ever told his eldest son he was proud of the kind of man he was turning into – _You might finally be growing up into a real man, Johnny_ – Jack McCoy had decided then and there that he would never be what his father considered to be 'a real man'. He could still remember his smart-aleck answer – _If you're a real man I'd rather be a goddamn monkey_ – and the pain of the blow that had followed.

He'd made his own code. When Regan had joked about 'Jack McCoy, self-made man with unskilled labor', she'd been closer to the mark than she could possibly have realized. McCoy had worked out his own patchwork system of ethics, based partly on the Church he'd stopped attending, partly on the opposite of what his father valued, partly on the philosophy and ethics he read as a law school, on the Constitution and the principles behind it, on the arguments he had with fellow students and later with colleagues … nowadays McCoy couldn't have pointed to any one thing he believed it and explain where it came from.

Except that single, central belief – _I am not my father, and I will not become him_ – that single central belief that had been proven false.

 _Own up to it, damn it!_ _You couldn't stop yourself becoming him – at least do what he never did. Admit what you did, admit it was wrong. Take responsibility. Face the music._

McCoy had wondered sometimes what his own childhood would have been like if his father had been man enough to do just that. _Or if he hadn't been protected by his badge and his buddies from the consequences._ If John McCoy senior had been arrested the first time he'd left his wife bleeding on the floor … _I don't know what it would have been like to grow up in a home, not a battleground._

_But it would have been different._

_It would have been safe._

"Jack?" Abbie's low voice came from the hall.

_And if the years I've spent fighting for the safety of the people in this jurisdiction are going to mean anything at all, I have to make sure that no-one ever asks that question about me._

"I'm in here," McCoy said. He scrubbed his hands over his face, trying to rub away any signs of exhaustion.

Abbie stopped in the living room doorway, head tilted to one side, and said bluntly: "You look like shit, Jack." McCoy smiled to realize his efforts had been wasted. _Can't fool Abbie_ , he thought. _Never could._ "I'm not joking," Abbie said, coming to lean on the arm of the couch beside him.

"What are you doing home?" he asked her. "You feeling okay?"

"Feeling better than you. What time did you let that poor girl get some sleep last night?" Abbie asked.

"She's not a girl. And I don't know," McCoy lied. "I know you thought I was hard on her – but it worked, she won the motion. Trial on Thursday."

" _Thursday_!" Abbie stood up in shock. "No ADA can get a case fully prepped that fast – and no defense attorney can, either!"

"Connie Rubirosa didn't oppose," McCoy said.

"Why not?"

"Regan didn't say." Regan hadn't said much of anything in her quick phone call, voice tight, words clipped. "But I'm glad it's moving quickly. I want it over with."

"They must think they have a smoking gun," Abbie said. She took a few steps across the room, then a few steps back, hand pressed into the small of her back as she balanced against the weight of her swollen belly. "But Regan's going to be flat-out preparing – opening statements take time to draft, preparing for cross – "

"She'll be fine." McCoy said.

"She won't be _fine_ ," Abbie said, sinking down onto the couch beside him. " _I_ wouldn't be fine. What the hell do you expect her to be able to do with that time-frame?"

"Stand up and sit down when she's told," McCoy said tersely. "That's all she's got, anyway. Except some cock-and-bull story about – "

"Okay, I did _not_ just hear you say that," Abbie said sternly. "I don't have privilege and if you voluntarily _break_ privilege then Regan doesn't either. So don't even _think_ about saying something that might imply you don't believe the theory of the crime your lawyer is going to present to the court." She leaned forward and glared at him intently. "You got that?"

"Yeah," McCoy said.

"You know, I really wish I could kick some sense into you," Abbie said. "But I don't want to end up on the stand as a witness for the prosecution, so I'll restrain myself. And from the look of you, you've been beating yourself up enough for both of us." She studied him. "You were always willing to go the extra mile when it came to cases with – "

"Drop it, Abbie," McCoy warned, launching himself to his feet and putting a safer distance between them.

"I'm just wondering if your judgment is as good as it usually is," Abbie said.

"If my judgment was any good," McCoy snapped, fists clenched, "I wouldn't have – "

_No, John, stop it – don't, please!_

He shook his head, trying to shake loose the memory, and forced himself to open his hands.

"Okay," Abbie said. She paused. "Jack, maybe you should stay here for a few days."

 _Bad idea._ "You've already got someone in your spare room," McCoy pointed out.

"You've slept on the couch plenty of night," Abbie said. "And – I'd feel better. I don't like to think of you on your own."

McCoy shook his head. "I'm better off on my own." _And you – and Regan – are better_ _off with me out from under this roof._

"Humor me," Abbie said. "Please, Jack. At least think about it." She leaned forward as if about to stand up. "Promise me you'll think about it."

McCoy nodded before she could get up and come any closer to him. "I'll think about it."

"Will you think about doing what your attorney advises, too?" Abbie asked.

"I thought you were going to stay out of this," McCoy reminded her.

"I'm already in it, Jack," Abbie said. "Like everyone who cares about you. Maybe you should think about _that_ in your race to throw yourself off the judicial cliff." She paused, and then said very softly: "If you go to jail, Jack, what am I going to do?"

"False vulnerability is particularly unconvincing coming from Hang 'Em All Carmichael," McCoy said without turning to look at her.

"Jack," Abbie said. "Jack! Look at me."

Reluctantly, he did. Her hands rested protectively over her stomach, and her eyes were full of unshed tears.

"I'm seven months pregnant. My husband is on active duty on the other side of the world. My family lives in Texas. And I am scared shitless." Her voice cracked, her lip quivered.

"Hey, you'll be fine, Tom'll be fine," McCoy said quickly. He hesitated, but she was looking at him so imploringly he couldn't keep from crouching down beside her and resting his hand over hers. "He'll be back before – "

" _Maybe_ ," Abbie said. She covered his hand with her own, holding him fast. "Everything in my life is _maybe_. _Maybe_ I'll be okay. _Maybe_ nothing will go wrong in the next two months. _Maybe_ nothing will go wrong after that. _Maybe_ my husband won't get shot or blown up. _Maybe,_ maybe,goddamn maybe! The only thing in my life that is never 'maybe' is this one friend I have, who never lets me down."

"Abbie…" McCoy said.

"And I _need_ him, Jack, I need my friend!" Abbie said, tears falling now. "I can't do this without him! And you're going to just let them put him in jail!"

"Abbie, it's not so simple," McCoy said.

"You promised me, do you remember, you promised me that all I had to do was call, and you'd come?" Her grip was painfully tight. "Did you mean it? Or was it just more McCoy blarney?"

"Abbie…" McCoy said. "You don't understand what you're asking."

"I'm asking you to keep your promise," Abbie said insistently. "I want you to fight these charges, and stay out of jail, and be there when I bring my baby home from the hospital."

She gasped suddenly, and at the same moment McCoy felt the percussion of her unborn baby's kick.

"This baby agrees," Abbie said. "Jack."

"I can't promise," McCoy said. "I can't – Abbie, if I told you – "

"Promise me you'll consider it," Abbie said.

McCoy hesitated. "Okay," he said at last.

Abbie let him go, and brushed her fingers across her eyes. "Damn hormones," she grumbled. "Can't talk about anything important without getting emotional."

She started to heave herself to her feet. McCoy stood up and took her hand, hauling her up off the couch.

"See?' she said, swatting his arm. "If you go to jail, I'm never going to be able to sit down again without worrying I'll end up stuck on that couch like a beached whale."

McCoy looked down at her, her eyes red-rimmed. He couldn't make her a promise he might not be able to keep, but nor could he tell her the truth. _That I'm going to jail because I deserve to_.

_That this apple fell all too close to the McCoy family tree._

Without speaking, he pulled her close, feeling her arm and fragile in his arms. He'd long ago realized that there were some things he couldn't protect her from.

_But there are some things I can._

_I'll keep you safe, Abbie._

_Even from myself._

* * *

...

* * *

Abbie took her laptop and cell phone up to her bedroom and shut the door behind her. She opened up her on-line banking program as she dialed Danielle Melnick's phone number.

"Melnick," a familiar voice said, Danielle's nasal New York accent giving even her own name a cynical edge.

"Danielle, Abbie Carmichael," Abbie said, trying to sound equally professional and dispassionate. Her throat felt tight and sore, as if she had been crying hard. _Damn hormones_. She hated crying in front of anyone, even McCoy. Still, maybe she'd managed to shock McCoy out of his determination to rail-road _himself_ to a conviction.

 _I can only hope_.

She swallowed against the lump in her throat. "Did you hear from Regan?"

"Thursday," Danielle said grimly. "Sally's in court tomorrow but I'm going to clear my diary for the day. We've got work to do."

"We've already got donations coming in," Abbie said. "It looks like we won't have time to _spend_ them."

"We'll have bills," Danielle said. "You'd better put me as a signatory on the account, so you don't have to know what they're for."

"I'll email you the form," Abbie said, doing just that as she spoke.

"Thanks," Danielle said. "Abbie – how's Jack doing?"

"He looks like hell and he's ready to nail _himself_ to the cross if Mike Cutter can't find enough nails," Abbie said. "Do you know what's going on with him? You know, it's always been nearly impossible to get Jack to admit he's made a mistake – when he _has_. I would have expected him to fight this tooth and nail, not roll over and die!"

"I've known Jack a long time," Danielle said, her usually businesslike voice softening a little. "I – " She paused. "You know, in second year Crim Law class, the professor made a distinction between a 'real' assault and a 'domestic'. _I_ was outraged – but it was _Jack_ who organized the petition to get him fired."

"Those cases always seemed to hit him hardest," Abbie agreed.

"Always seemed to hit him close to _home_ ," Danielle said. "Not that he'd ever talk about it. Jack McCoy, talk the leg off a table under wet cement on any topic except himself or how he might actually personally feel about something."

"I don't know anything about Jack's background," Abbie said slowly. "It sounds like you're suggesting – "

"I'm not suggesting anything," Danielle said firmly. "Especially not to someone who doesn't enjoy any privilege for this conversation. But I will _tell_ you something. Convincing the jury that Jack is not guilty is going to be hard, but it's going to be a hell of a lot easier than convincing _Jack_ that he's innocent."

"Higher standard of proof," Abbie said.

"Different rules of evidence," Danielle said.

* * *

.oOo.


	14. Hostile Witness

_Mickey's Diner_

_102 Centre St_

_10.30 am Tuesday May 8_ _th_ _2007_

 

* * *

 

Regan walked Rey Curtis out of the diner and watched him stride away down the street. She dug her phone out of her pocket and double-checked that she hadn't missed a call. _No_. She'd reached Danielle Melnick and Sally Bell to tell them about the catastrophic chambers hearing, left messages for Serena and Nora Lewin, and since then had been hoping against hope that one of them would call back with a solution, some brilliant piece of lawyerly logic that would enable them to get the case held over to the next gap in Wright's calendar, that would give her time to come up with a better defense than _I didn't do it, nobody saw me, you can't prove anything._

_Especially since my client won't even co-operate with_ _**that** _ _pathetic effort._

As yet, she'd received no reprieve. Regan's stomach twisted at the thought of court on Thursday, and she glanced after Rey Curtis, carrying all the hopes of McCoy's defense on his shoulders.

She pushed away the anxiety, locking it away in the box inside her head where she had learnt to keep distractions that she couldn't afford. _Don't be worrying about your grocery shopping while your partner is getting a bullet in the head_ , Gran-Da had advised, and Regan had taught herself to put everything aside for as long as the job demanded, put it aside and shut it away.

_Job to do._

_Partner going through a door._

No guns, this time, but the consequences could be just as lethal.

_Job to do. Deposition time._

She walked the few blocks to One Hogan Place, using the time to try and clear her head _. Easier said than done._ The sense of helplessness that gripped her whenever she contemplated the days ahead set her gut churning and her head spinning, brought with it the sound of screaming and the taste of blood. _Help me, El, oh god it hurts it hurts …_

_Goddamn it_ , she raged at herself. _You don't have time for this!_ _ **Jack**_ _doesn't have time for this!_

For the first time in weeks she had to resort to the calming techniques Emil Skoda had taught her. Imagining herself in a car speeding along the open road at night, the white line rolling towards her, Regan took deep breaths and waited for her heart-rate to slow.

Walking in to the DA's Office without her badge was disorienting, punching the button for Narcotics on sixth rather than the tenth floor more so. Regan imagined that the ADAs she passed were staring at her, thought she could read the shocked fascination of car-wreck rubber-neckers on their faces. _Move along here, people_ , she thought, _nothing to see._

Nothing except an ADA gone suddenly radioactive. McCoy had handed her a big lump of career kryptonite when he'd picked her to handle those two complaints and then flim-flammed her into being his attorney. Regan wouldn't have blamed her former colleagues if they had shrunk back against the wall as she passed to avoid contamination.

Mike Cutter didn't shrink away from her when she reached the conference room, but stepped forward briskly, hand outstretched to take hers. His grip was firm and decisive, his eyes keen. _Cut-throat Cutter_ , Regan remembered. She wondered if he was making a deliberate attempt to intimidate her. _If he is, it's working._

Connie Rubirosa was already there, along with the court reporter.

"Ms Dyson will be here in a few minutes," Rubirosa said. "With her lawyer."

"Ms Dyson doesn't feel that the DA's Office adequately represents her interests in this?" Regan asked.

"Ms Dyson is a defendant in a matter being handled by Tracey Kibre," Cutter said. "She has an interest against self-incrimination."

"What's her defense?" Regan asked casually, trying hard to appear as if she was only making idle conversation.

"I'm not going to discuss that with you, Ms Markham, and you should know better than to ask," Cutter said with absolutely no inflection to his voice.

"I apologize," Regan said. "I simply can't help noting that the DA's Office has not yet seen fit to interview _my_ client on the matter of _People v Dyson_."

"Directing that inquiry to Ms Kibre would be more appropriate," Cutter said. "Stop fencing, Ms Markham. You work with Jack McCoy, so no doubt you're good – but I'm better."

The door behind Regan opened and she turned to see Keri Dyson and Lanie Stieglitz.

"Does _she_ have to be here?" Keri asked immediately.

"Yes," Cutter answered. "The defense has the right to be present at discovery depositions. But don't worry, Ms Dyson, she can't ask you any questions or interfere in the proceedings in any way." He shot a warning glance at Regan, and she nodded, doing her best to look meekly co-operative.

In fact, if Lanie Stieglitz hadn't been successful in getting a temporary restraining order against McCoy coming within a hundred yards of her client, _he_ would have had the right to be here too. Regan wondered if Lanie might not have done her a favor. Keri's bruises had advanced to their most startling stage of blue and purple. She looked every inch the much wronged, much abused woman, and thinking back to McCoy's shock at seeing her yesterday at arraignment, Regan was glad he was prevented from being here today.

_It's going to be interesting when she testifies,_ Regan thought. _Of course, I hope by then Rey Curtis has turned up something that will make it pretty interesting for_ _ **her**_ _, too._

But she couldn't ask any probing questions here today, testing the edges of Keri's story. Nor, she noted, did Cutter, not that she would have expected him to make such a novice mistake in front of a defense attorney. This deposition was a court document, not witness prep. _No doubt Cutter and Connie will spend plenty of time with Keri over the next few days making sure her story is trial ready._

Today, Keri only had to repeat what she'd said in her complaint, and Regan noted she did it almost word -for-word. _No new information for us to work with_. She took notes anyway – the number of drinks Keri said McCoy had (three); the way they'd gotten from the bar to McCoy's apartment (a cab which Dyson had paid for); where she said the assault had taken place (in the hall); what she'd done afterwards (fled sobbing). It all sounded plausible – to anyone who didn't know Jack McCoy.

_And to a few who do_ , Regan thought glumly, looking at Lanie Stieglitz sitting protectively close to her client.

Although uncomplicated, the deposition took hours. As the court reporter packed up, Regan glanced at Connie Rubirosa and was glad to see that she looked troubled, a slight frown creasing her perfect face as she studied the papers in front of her.

_Ask her the right questions_ , Regan willed the other woman. _Ask everyone the right questions. Find out what happened, in case I don't manage to._

Connie looked up, caught Regan's eye and quickly looked away.

Regan sighed silently, shoved her notepad into her briefcase, and followed Lanie and Keri out of the conference room.

In the corridor she caught sight of the door to the restroom closing behind Keri. Lanie Stieglitz set her briefcase down and folded her arms, obviously preparing to wait for her client. As Regan passed her, the other woman spoke.

"I'm surprised at you, Ms Markham," she said abruptly.

"I can't imagine why," Regan snapped, barely checking her stride.

"I would have thought that a young woman," Lanie said, following Regan toward the elevator, "A young woman with _your_ background and life experience, wouldn't be so quick to spring to the defense of a man who commits this kind of crime."

"First of all," Regan said, stopping dead in the corridor and turning to face Lanie, "I'm not young."

"From my perspective?" Lanie said with a smile.

"Secondly," Regan went on, refusing to be mollified, "I don't know what you mean by _my_ background and _my_ life experience."

"You have a law enforcement background," Lanie said. "Don't look surprised. You've been Arthur Branch's favorite fund-raising speechmaker for a couple of months now. Word gets around. _And_ you've been the victim of male violence yourself, if the newspaper reports about the Walters shooting were correct."

"And thirdly, and most particularly importantly, I'm not springing to the defense of 'a man', as you so disdainfully put it, but _Jack McCoy_ , my colleague and yours, _Jack McCoy_ who I am perfectly confident would cut off his right hand before he raised it in anger against a woman, _Jack McCoy_ who is, might I remind you, innocent until proven guilty." Regan realized her fists were clenched and made an effort to relax them. "So don't talk to me about law enforcement, and male violence, Ms Stieglitz. The background and life experience that's relevant here is knowing the kind of man Jack McCoy is and knowing what he's capable of and what he'd _never, ever_ do."

"Dear," Lanie said, "When you get to my age you'll understand, there's very little that people aren't capable of, under the right circumstances."

"Including your client," Regan said. "If your client's story is true, why did she go to Jack and try and blackmail him into giving her a promotion, instead of going straight to the police?"

"She was upset and confused by the betrayal of her trust by someone she looked up to and admired," Lanie said. "Jack McCoy is twisting the situation to try and weaken her credibility as a witness against him."

"That might fly in front of a jury," Regan said, "But I was in the room. It's my signature on the complaints. And I can tell you now, that's not the way it played out."

Regan hoped she saw a flicker of uncertainty in Lanie's eyes. If it was there, and not just her wishful thinking, it was quickly gone. "Of course you're taking his side in this," Lanie said. She put her hand on Regan's arm. "I've known Jack for a lot of years. He's a great lawyer, and a man with a lot of integrity, at least by his own standards. But he's just a man, when it's all said and done – a man with more than a few flaws. One of which is charming the pants off any woman who spends too much time with him. So look out for yourself. Don't let your feelings for him get in the way of your good judgment. Look at this case dispassionately."

"For someone who has built a career on women's rights," Regan snapped, "You have a remarkably low opinion of our intelligence. I'm thinking with my _brain_ , Ms Stieglitz, not my heart – or any _other_ part of my anatomy."

She turned on her heel and strode for the elevator, too angry to trust herself to say anything further. Inside, she punched the button for the ground floor with a hard blow with a side of her hand, hard enough to bring tears to her eyes.

_Great_. Regan studied the side of her hand as the elevator lurched downwards, seeing the reddening mark that would turn into a bruise. _This case goes much longer I'm not going to be able to hold a pen._

Deep in thought, she walked straight past the subway entrance and only realized her mistake two blocks later. About to retrace her steps, she stopped. The late afternoon air was pleasantly warm, and the thought of the commuter crush turned her stomach.

_Do I really have time to waste?_ she wondered, and then decided that maybe the walk would clear her head. _Worth it._

However, any measure of calm the long walk home gave her quickly evaporated when she unlocked the front door and saw McCoy in the hall, wanting to rehash the morning's chamber's hearing.

"We don't need to talk about it," Regan said dully. "It's done. It's over."

"You must have done some pretty good tap-dancing," McCoy said. "Thursday – that's even sooner than I'd – "

"I didn't do any damn tap-dancing, Rubirosa folded her cards," Regan snapped. _Thursday_. Her stomach twisted.

"I guess she saw she was outclassed," McCoy said. _This is just exactly how he always is when I win a Hail Mary argument against a good defense lawyer,_ Regan thought. _Building my confidence. Encouraging me._

_How can he act like this is just one more case for me to cut my teeth on?_

"I need a glass of water," she said shortly, turning away from him and heading for the kitchen.

She turned on the tap and let it run, head bowed as she leaned on the edge of the sink. The steady hiss reminded her of the sound of tires on an empty road at night and she closed her eyes and concentrated on the feeling of peace the thought gave her.

"You might need a glass," McCoy said, right beside her, startling her and setting her pulse racing again.

She turned off the tap hard, and hissed in pain as the flanges dug into the side of her hand. "God – damn – " She couldn't find words violent enough to express the black fury that surged though her, clenched her fist and slammed it down on the counter, deliberately bruising the tender flesh further, and again.

"Hey!" McCoy caught her wrist. "Regan. Take it easy!"

She snarled wordlessly, turning to glare at him, struggling to escape his grip, but he held her fast, and when she grabbed his hand to peel his fingers away he hauled her closer to him, pinning her arms between them, his other arm around her shoulders.

"Take it _easy_ ," he said again, his tone making it an order, holding her too tightly for her to anything but lean against him.

"Fuck you," Regan said, but she stopped struggling.

McCoy chuckled, his grip on her easing. "Not the most sincere invitation I've ever had."

_Goddamn charming S.O.B_ , Regan thought, smiling despite herself. She took a deep breath, then another, feeling panic ebb. "I hired a private detective today," she said after a few moments, her voice a little muffled by McCoy's shoulder.

He went still. "Why did you do that?" he asked at last, his voice even.

"To find out what happened – to find out what there is to know about Dyson – to help me prepare for trial. On _Thursday_." She raised her head and pulled away from him a little to look him in the eye. "You can't imagine I can do all the prep myself in _forty-eight hours_."

"You don't need prep," McCoy said. He let her go and took a step away from her.

"Your confidence, while touching, is misplaced," Regan said waspishly.

"You don't need prep because you won't be presenting a case," McCoy said. "No witnesses. No cross-examination of the _prosecution_ witnesses. No opening or closing statements."

"What the – oh for – Jack, we _talked_ about this," Regan said. "You were going to co-operate, remember? Let me try and salvage _my_ reputation, at least?"

"That was before I knew you weren't going to come up with anything better than some cock-and-bull story about drugs and a _frame-up_ , for god's sake, as if _that's_ going to go anywhere."

"I think it's the truth, Jack," Regan said. "I think that's what happened."

He shook his head, not looking at her. "Intoxication is not an excuse."

" _Involuntary_ intoxication is a defense – " Regan started.

"I know it's a _defense_ ," McCoy interrupted. "I have been at this a _few_ years, Regan, I know the law and all the ways defense lawyers can help their clients escape the consequences of their actions. I'm not going to play that game."

Regan stared at him, unable to find words. Finally she ran her fingers through her hair.

"We'll talk about this later," she said. "Right now I have an appointment."

"With your private detective?" McCoy asked.

"With my _shrink_ ," Regan said. "Although, personally? I think you're the one who needs his services."

"I won't let you run an insanity defense, either," McCoy said, and Regan wasn't entirely sure he was joking.

* * *

.oOo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Depositions in criminal trials are more often taken by the prosecution for the purpose of recording witness testimony in case the witness is not available for trial. However, in some jurisdictions, depositions form part of the discovery process. The defendant or his/her counsel does not have a constitutional right to be present unless the deposition is taken to preserve testimony of a witness who will be unable to testify at the trial, but statute may establish that right where the deposition is taken as part of the discovery process. I do not in fact know what the state of the law on this is in New York State, so I am pretending that NY is a jurisdiction with discovery depositions and statute-established rights for defense to be present.


	15. Privilege

_Emil Skoda's Office_

_6 pm Tuesday May 8_ _th_ _2007_

 

* * *

 

Regan didn't pause to knock before shoving open Skoda's office, hard enough to bounce the handle off the wall. Emil Skoda was reading and Regan thought she might have startled him but the psychiatrist was too skilled at hiding his own reactions for her to be sure. He raised his eyebrows and set his book aside.

"Hey," Regan said, catching the door as it rebounded toward her.

"Hello," Skoda said neutrally. When Regan didn't move, he asked: "Are you going to come in?"

Regan took a step forward and shut the door behind her, as hard as she'd opened it.

After a moment Skoda said: "Would you like to sit down?"

"Not really," Regan said. She held out her bruised hand with its grazed knuckles for him to see.

"How'd that happen?" Skoda asked.

"Wall. And elevator," Regan said.

"You're hitting inanimate objects instead of people," Skoda said. "I suppose we can call that progress."

"I wasn't hitting anything last week," Regan said. "I suppose we can call that regression."

"What's changed since then?" Skoda asked.

"You really _are_ out of the loop," Regan said.

"Not that far," Skoda said. "You've become a defense attorney. Has anything else changed?"

"No," Regan said shortly. "Nothing's changed except my boss has been charged with assault, arraigned and set down for trial the day after tomorrow, and he's acting like a complete – is this confidential?"

"Yes," Skoda said.

"What about what it does to my privilege with Jack? If I tell you something that would be covered by privilege as lawyer-client communication, doesn't that breach – ?"

"Only if it can be proved," Skoda said. "And since I can't testify without your permission, and I'm not taking any notes …"

"So long as I lie about it, everything's fine," Regan said, nodding. "Well, let me tell you, that's the _least_ of my worries. Jack's being a complete _ass_ , he even wanted to plead _guilty_ , and I'm having to fight this with both hands tied behind my back and even if I didn't I'm hardly a fucking legal eagle genius who can prepare a defense case in two days and take on the ADA Arthur Branch has hand-picked as Jack's successor, I mean, Jesus!" She whirled away from Skoda, needing to move, needing to act, needing to be able to _do_ something.

"How do you feel about that?" Skoda asked.

"How do I feel about being as much use as tits on a bull while my partner is – or _ought to be_ – fighting for his life and freedom?" Regan snapped. "How am I _supposed_ to feel about that?"

"Sounds like you feel as if you can't do anything to help him," Skoda observed. He paused. When Regan just glared at him, refusing to fill the silence, he went on: "As if you feel _helpless_."

"What's your point?" Regan asked.

"You've felt helpless before," Skoda said. "At another time in your life. When – "

"Fucking _spare_ me," Regan said. "I worked that out for myself."

"Okay," Skoda said, studying her. Regan straightened her shoulders and hoped the shadows under her eyes weren't too visible. "Because it brought back the flashbacks and the dreams?"

"Yeah," Regan said sullenly.

"Have you been doing the exercises we talked about?"

"Yes, doctor, I have," Regan said. "But Jack doesn't have time for my bullshit baggage. I need to get it together and hold it together – this is his career, and his freedom, and his _life_ we're talking about, not some opportunity for my personal growth!"

She realized she was shouting and stopped.

"You should maybe be doing the exercises a little more often," Skoda said drily.

"Yeah," Regan said. She dropped into the chair opposite him with a sigh. "Can we talk about something else?"

"It's your hour," Skoda said, and shrugged. "You can talk about anything you want."

Regan noticed he didn't say ' _we_ can talk about anything you want'. "I want to talk about Jack," she said. "I want your professional opinion – on why he's so hell-bent on letting them throw him into jail for something he didn't do."

Skoda steepled his hands. "I can't give you a professional opinion of someone without examining them."

"Speculate," Regan suggested.

Skoda gave a small, humorless laugh. "ADAs always want me to 'speculate'."

"Yeah, and you always say you can't and then you do," Regan said.

"Jack tell you that?" Skoda said, smiling. Regan nodded. "Okay. Let's talk hypothetically. Why do people plead guilty to crimes?"

"Jack's not _people_ ," Regan protested.

"You asked me to speculate," Skoda said. "Humor me. You've been working in the DA's Office for more than a year. Why do people take a plea?"

"Because they're guilty," Regan said promptly. "And they know we can prove it. But Jack's _not_ guilty, so – "

"Is every defendant who takes a plea guilty of what they're charged with? Or are they just guilty?" Skoda said. He leaned forward. "I've seen men confess to crimes their sons have committed – women confess to murdering children who died of natural causes."

"Why would they do that?' Regan asked.

"When it comes to parenting, there's always room for guilt. If only I'd taken my baby to the doctor – if only I'd realized earlier there was something wrong – been a better father – spent less time at work and more time at home … " He shrugged. "Parenthood brings responsibility. And if you're responsible, then when something goes wrong – "

"You're responsible for _that_ , too," Regan said, nodding. "Guilty."

"Guilt is like _water_ , Regan," Skoda said. "It finds the lowest level. Survivors of car crashes find ways to blame themselves for the accident. Or someone who saw colleagues shot to death, perhaps – and carries a burden of – "

"Off-topic," Regan warned sharply.

"Really?" Skoda asked, gaze shrewd.

" _Really_." Regan folded her arms. "So you're saying that Jack feels _responsible_ for whatever happened to Keri? Guilty?"

"I'm saying that someone might transfer a sense of guilt from one thing to something else," Skoda said. "Like you have."

"We're not talking about me," Regan reminded him.

" _You_ feel responsible – guilty – for Jack's situation," Skoda said.

"I'm not," Regan said. "I didn't drug his drink and I didn't frame him for assault."

"Then why do you feel guilty?"

"I'm not – " Regan said, and stopped. Skoda's gaze was very steady. She sighed. "I knew there was something wrong, that night. I _felt_ it. But I thought – I thought what I felt was jealousy. Maybe it _was_. I wasn't clear – in my head – . So it _is_ my fault, in a way. Those kind of feelings – they screw up partnership. And your partner needs you to watch their back, no matter what. And I didn't."

"What do you mean, 'those kind of feelings'?" Skoda asked.

"Romantic," Regan said.

"'Romantic' as a euphemism for sexual?" Skoda said, and Regan felt herself blush. "That's the first time you've talked about Jack in those terms."

"Nothing's happened," Regan said, stretching the truth a little. "And nothing's _going_ to happen. But … anyway, I should know better. I _do_ know better. I should have dealt with it, I shouldn't have been _distracted_."

"You sound like you're speaking from experience," Skoda said.

"I know what I'm talking about," Regan said. "Let's leave it at that."

"You can't blame yourself for your feelings," Skoda said. "Attraction is a powerful force."

"I can blame myself for letting it interfere with my judgment," Regan said. A thought struck her. "So what does Jack blame himself for?"

"That's an excellent question," Skoda said. "And one that Jack would have to answer."

"Because you don't know?" Regan said, watching Skoda closely. "No, that's not it, is it? Because you won't tell me."

"How could you believe I'd respect your confidence if I betrayed his?" Skoda asked reasonably.

"So it's something to do with doctor-patient confidentiality?" Regan asked.

Skoda shook his head. "No," he said. "Something to do with friend-friend confidentiality."

"If you're his friend, then you'll help him," Regan said.

"Betraying trust doesn't help anyone," Skoda said.

"So you're telling me I have to ask Jack?" Regan said.

"I'm telling you," Skoda said, "that you need to work out a way to get him to tell you." He paused. "Not quite the same thing."

* * *

 ...

* * *

 

 

 

 _Not at all the same thing,_ Regan thought as she shut the front door of Abbie's house behind her, looking at the light from the living room spilling into the hall.

She stood for a moment in the doorway to the living room. McCoy was sitting on the couch, a book propped on his knee, and she studied his profile, the lines of strain that bracketed his mouth, the shadows around his eyes. Her chest hurt to look at him.

Her efforts to explain to Skoda why she had dismissed her sense of unease as she watched McCoy leave the bar with Keri Dyson had foundered on her inability to put her inchoate feelings into words, even to herself. _Romantic._

_As if a word redolent of roses and chocolates could ever apply to Jack McCoy – or to me._

Skoda had been blunter, and he'd hit closer to the mark. Regan could remember the tingling, aching warmth fired by the touch of McCoy's hand, the caress of his lips. Since she'd decided she would rather keep her job than join the notches on McCoy's headboard and put a very proper professional distance between them, McCoy had complained on more than one occasion that she didn't trust him.

Regan had smiled silently, not admitting to him that she trusted _him_ more than she trusted herself.

But _attraction_ wasn't all of what she felt, either. Leaning against the doorframe, what Regan wanted more than anything else in the world was to go to McCoy, to wrap her arms around him and run her fingers through his hair and somehow make it alright for him, to soothe away the marks of strain and the air of sadness that enveloped him.

But she couldn't. _What he needs right now is not meaningless reassurance or a comforting hug._

_What he needs right now is what he needed last Thursday – he needs his partner to step up and look out for him._

Just like her Grand-Da had always said. _Your partner's broken down on the highway somewhere in the rain and the night, girl, what you gonna do? Stay inside where it's warm and dry, or drive out and find him?_

_When your partner needs you, what you want or how you feel doesn't matter._

"Whatcha reading?" Regan asked. McCoy turned to look at her.

"Harvard Law Review," he said. "Article on appellate delay."

"You won't need an appeal," Regan said, trying to sound certain.

He closed the journal with a snap. "I won't be filing one."

 _Oh, for_ – Regan closed her lips over the exasperated words. "Uh-huh," she said noncommittally instead, and wandered over to the sideboard, picking up the bottle of whiskey standing there. "Drink?"

"No," McCoy said.

Regan poured herself a small one and sank down on the couch, turning to prop herself against the arm so she could look straight at him. "I've been thinking about the case," she said.

It was McCoy's turn to make a noncommittal noise.

"Have you ever prosecuted a case where the defendant was framed?" Regan asked.

"Plenty where they claimed to be," McCoy said.

Regan sipped her scotch. "Any of them right?"

He shrugged.

"Any cases where someone confessed to something they didn't do?"

"The police usually screen those out before they get to One Hogan Place," McCoy said. "There's always a few with big profile cases, or when the defendant is mentally unstable, or just plain publicity seeking."

"Any that didn't fit that profile?"

"If you're looking for examples to use in your opening statement, save your time," McCoy said. "You won't be giving one."

Regan drew breath for a heated reply and then forced herself to let it out gently. She leaned forward to set her empty glass on the table. "You've already said that. I'm just – talking."

"You've got all the subtlety of a sledgehammer," McCoy said, launching himself off the couch and striding across the room to the window. He stared out, although Regan doubted he could see anything other than his own reflection with the lights of the room behind him and the night-dark city ahead.

"I'm trying to understand why you're so eager to be condemned for something you didn't – "

"Something you _think_ I didn't – "

"Something _no-one_ can be _sure_ you did," Regan said. "Jack, I would think that you would need this _proved_ to you. Instead you're refusing to even consider evidence that points to your innocence."

"I'm not innocent," McCoy said.

"You're not _an_ innocent," Regan said. "But these are specific charges – whatever you feel guilty about – "

"I don't know what you think you're saying," McCoy said sharply, "But you should think again."

Regan bit back an equally sharp response. "I know what it's like to feel _responsible_ ," she said softly.

"You don't know anything," McCoy said dismissively.

"Then _tell_ me," Regan pleaded.

McCoy stared at her and for a moment Regan thought she'd persuaded him. Then he turned away. "There's nothing to tell," he said shortly.

"That's a pile of stinking pig-shit," Regan said, flinging herself to her feet and striding across the room to face him. "You've been hauled before the disciplinary committee for things you actually _did_ do and you fought like a Kilkenny cat."

"I was _cleared_ on – " McCoy started.

Regan jabbed him in the chest with one finger. "You were _cleared_ because you persuaded them that your actions _weren't_ a violation – just like you did with Serena, I know that story, she told me."

"Neither I _nor_ Serena had done anything wrong," McCoy said.

"And you don't know you've done anything wrong _now_!" Regan cried.

"I don't know what I've done," McCoy said. "And neither do you!"

"What I know is that when I wake up with a hangover and a gap in my memory I worry about whether I might have danced on a table or screwed somebody I shouldn't have," Regan said. McCoy snorted and started to turn away, and Regan grabbed his shirt to stop him. "Jack. I have a bad record when it comes to fist-fights. And _I'd_ want proof. You accepted Keri Dyson's story as gospel the minute it came out of her mouth. _Why_?"

McCoy seized her wrist, trying to pull himself free. Regan hung on.

"What the hell is going on, Jack?" she asked. "You've decided that you're guilty – so I need to know, as your lawyer, what that's based on. What the hell have you done that makes you guilty enough to take a plea on a crime you didn't commit?"

"This has nothing to _do_ with you!" McCoy succeeded in tearing her hand away from his shirt but Regan refused to back away. She braced herself for him to push her, but he only held her at arm's length.

"Oh, it has _everything_ to do withme,"she said, making her voice hard and quiet, her best 'bad cop' tone. "You hired me, remember? You're my _client_. How does the New York State Bar Association 'Statement of Client's Responsibilities' go?"

"That's an informational statement with no binding legal – " McCoy said heatedly.

Regan interrupted him. "The client's relationship with the lawyer must be one of complete candor – " she quoted.

"The last thing _you_ want from me is complete candor!" McCoy snarled, dropping her wrist and turning away. "Do you want an honest appraisal of your standard of work in the DA's Office?"

Regan seized his arm and forced him to face her. "The lawyer," she said grimly, "must be apprised of all facts or circumstances even if the client believes those facts may be detrimental or unflattering."

"Facts or circumstances _relating to the matter_ ," McCoy said.

"The reason you would have entered a guilty plea if I hadn't stopped you, that's not relating to the matter?" Regan countered.

"Yeah, well, I should never have let you – "

"You should never have fucking _hired_ me," Regan snapped. "You handed me a big cup of career cyanide and me, stupid fool that I am, I trusted you and tossed it back. You want me to stay as your lawyer, don't give me a reason under DR 2-110 to withdraw!"

"You have no grounds for withdrawal," McCoy said, shaking himself free from her grip.

"Section C. One – D." Regan folded her arms and glared at McCoy. "You're rendering it unreasonably difficult for me to carry out my employment effectively."

"Your _employment_ is to represent me," McCoy retorted. "Which you can do perfectly effectively by following my instructions. You want to quote the 'Code of Professional Responsibility'? How about EC 7-7 – or was that one of the questions you missed on your bar exam? I know there were more than a few!"

Regan took a sharp breath, stung almost to tears. "I know what EC 7-7 is," she said, proud that her voice didn't shake _._ _The authority to make decisions is exclusively that of the client and such decisions are binding on the lawyer … it is for the client to decide what plea should be entered and whether an appeal should be taken ..._ "I advised you of the consequences – "

"You exerted undue influence based on personal considerations," McCoy snapped. "Which, by the way, is also specifically covered by the Code. Lawyers should not allow their conduct of a case to be influenced by the desire to avoid antagonism with public figures or other members of the legal profession, or by their concern to maintain the security of their legal practice."

"Are you so familiar with the Code because you've spent so much time in front of the Bar Ethics Committee?" Regan asked spitefully.

"Nobody's ever accused me of not learning from experience," McCoy said.

"Nobody's ever accused you of not being a stubborn _ass_ , either!" Regan snapped. "You won't tell me, you'll force me to find out for myself, turn over all the rocks – "

" _Mind your own goddamn business!_ "

The fury in his voice shocked them both to silence.

The Regan took a careful breath. "If you'd tell me," she said reasonably, "I wouldn't have to go stomping around in your private –"

"I'm not listening to this any longer." McCoy grabbed his jacket from where it lay across the back of one of Abbie's armchairs.

"Where are you going?" Regan asked.

"Home," McCoy said. "In search of a bit of peace and quiet."

"I'll call you tomorrow," Regan said. McCoy headed into the hall without acknowledging her, and she followed him. "Jack? I'll call you tomorrow."

"Do what you want," McCoy said without turning.

The door closed behind him.

* * *

.oOo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The 'Statement of Client's Responsibilities' and the 'New York Lawyer's Code of Professional Responsibility' are both real documents, which you can find on-line, but I have played a little fast-and-loose with the exact clauses that Regan and McCoy quote in this chapter, while trying to remain true to the meaning.


	16. Ticking Clock

_Abbie Carmichael's House_

_8 am Wednesday May 9_ _th_ _2007_

 

* * *

 

Regan looked at her watch. _Call Jack again?_ shewondered. _It's been half-an-hour._

Her last call to his cell had gone straight to voicemail; his landline was continually engaged. _Switched off and off the hook respectively_ , Regan had surmised.

Regan was reaching for her cell phone to try again when it started ringing. She snatched it up, hoping to hear McCoy's voice.

"Hello, Regan?" she heard Melinda Warner say. "You asked me to call Rob Jordan?"

"Yeah," Regan said. "Did you? Will he talk to me?"

"He'll talk to you," Melinda said. "But I don't think it's going to help you. Rob's been working in Baltimore since he want down there. He hasn't even set foot in Mercy since his last shift."

"But that's – his signature's on the chart," Regan said. "Is it forged? Why would a doctor – "

"I don't know," Melinda said. "All I can tell you is, Rob Jordan didn't treat Keri Dyson last week."

"Can you give me his number?" Regan asked, and wrote down the digits Melinda read out. "Thanks, Dr Warner. I appreciate it."

"You figure out the mystery," Melinda said, "let me know."

Regan cut the connection and dialed Serena Southerlyn's number. She told Serena what Melinda had said.

"I have to go," she said. "I'll call Dr Jordan, get on the train, I can be down there and get an affidavit from him – "

"No," Serena said. "You're thinking like you're still second-chairing for Jack. You need to stay on top of your PI, prep for tomorrow, write your opening statement – _I'll_ go to Baltimore. I can be back tonight. What's Dr Jordan's number?"

Regan gave it to her. As Serena rang off, Regan reflected that Serena was right – she _was_ still thinking as if she were second-chairing for McCoy – looking for him to give her a lead to follow, spinning her wheels when he refused.

_I have to stop thinking of him as my boss_ , she thought. _I have to think of him as a client_.

She dialed her _client's_ number again. _Voicemail. Dial tone._

_Dammit, Jack!_

_I shouldn't have pushed him last night_ , she thought. _But what choice did I have?_

_He needs a_ _**lawyer** _ _, not mollycoddling._

On that thought, she called Rey Curtis and told him about the mystery of Rob Jordan's signature on a medical report he couldn't have written.

"I'll check it out," Curtis said. "I've got you a report on Keri Dyson's life and times which I'll drop by your office later today."

"I don't have an office," Regan said. "Drop it at Abbie Carmichael's house."

"Ms Carmichael," Curtis said. "How is she doing?"

"About seven months pregnant," Regan said.

"No kidding!" Curtis said, sounding pleased. "That's great!"

"Yeah, it is," Regan said. "Mr. Curtis, I really need to know what's going on with this doctor."

"I'm on it," Curtis said, sounding businesslike again. "I have some contacts at the hospital from when I was on the force. I'll reach out to them and see what there is to see."

"Thanks," Regan said. "Oh, and Mr. Curtis – how did you go with the security cameras?"

"No luck," Curtis said. "They're inoperative since the building went to doormen 24/7. I'm going to go back tonight and see if I can talk to the guy who works nights during the week."

"Great," Regan said. "Listen – Keri and Jack caught a cab from the _Lord Roberts_ to his building. I'd like to talk to that cabbie."

"Do you have a hack number?" Curtis asked.

"No."

"Name of the firm?"

"No," Regan said, and heard Curtis sigh. "That's not good, is it?"

"Ms Markham," Curtis said, "Do you have any idea how long it's going to take me to track down one cab driver in all New York City?"

"The rest of your natural life?" Regan asked.

"About that," Curtis said. "How badly do you want to talk to him? Or her, I suppose."

"Not as badly as I want to know what's going on with the hospital records or as badly as I want to talk to the doorman," Regan said.

"Okay," Curtis said. "I'll put it on the list – at the bottom."

Regan thanked him again, and cut the connection.

_Okay_ , she thought. _Two things ticked off my to-do list._

Next _ought_ to be starting to draft her opening arguments for the next day. _But Jack's made it clear he doesn't want me to give one._

She tried to call him again without success.

_Your partner's lost in the woods, girl, what you gonna do? You gonna leave him to freeze in the dark, or you gonna saddle up?_

When she got to McCoy's apartment, there was no answer when she rang the bell and pounded on the door. When she unlocked the door, it opened only a fraction before jamming fast. Regan ran her fingers along the jamb, trying to see if he had the chain on, and felt the rounded edge of some piece of solid wooden furniture.

She shouldered the door again. "Jack! I know you're in there!"

_Silence_. The door wouldn't budge. She couldn't get her arm far enough through the crack to try and shift whatever he'd used to barricade her out. She shouldered it again, then pounded on the wood with her clenched fist. "Damn it, Jack! I need to talk to you! We're in court tomorrow! Jack!"

She didn't realize how hard she was hitting the door until she saw blood on the paint, took a deep breath and lowered her hand to her side and then impulsively hammered her fist on the wood once more.

"Jack, damn you! Open this fucking door! _Jack_!"

"He's either not there or he doesn't want to talk to you," a voice said from her left.

Regan turned and saw a diminutive old lady glaring at her.

"And if you don't stop doing that, I'm going to call the authorities," the old lady said.

For just about the first time in her adult life, Regan was without a badge to hold up and say _I am the authorities, ma'am._

"Okay," she said as meekly as she could.

With the old lady watching her, Regan pulled a legal pad and a pen from her briefcase and began writing, hand aching.

_I'll see you in court. 9 am_ , she wrote. Her split knuckles left spots of blood on the paper. About to slip the note inside the door she paused, and added: _If you don't turn up I'll haul you there by your hair. And if I get over here and can't get in, I'll call FDNY and tell them I smell smoke_.

She reached as far inside as she could and dropped the note, then pulled the door shut. "Okay?" she said to the old lady, and McCoy's neighbor nodded, satisfied. "I really _do_ need to talk to him," Regan added. "If you see him, will you tell him? My name is Regan Markham."

"I'm Mrs. Louise Farr," the old woman said. "And I'll tell him if I see him, but I doubt it will do any good. Although I haven't seen anyone try _that_ before, so who knows?"

"Seen anyone try _what_?" Regan asked, startled.

"Begging him to take you back," Mrs. Farr said. "Usually _they're_ the ones who storm out."

"I'm not begging him to take me back," Regan said.

"No, you aren't," the old lady said, looking at her shrewdly. "You're begging him to let you in, aren't you? I've seen that. Not usually quite so physically, I must say. They usually try sympathy. And _that_ never works. That's when they start leaving, you know."

_They_? Regan thought. "How long have you lived next door to Jack?" she asked.

"Oh, a long time now. I've been here forty years, you know."

Regan leaned on the wall. "That is a long time," she said. _Interrogation 101_. _If the subject is talking, let them talk._

"I remember when he moved in, he was such a good-looking young man, and he knew it, too!" The old lady smiled at the memory. "All those girls, well! And then his wife, such a nice girl. And the baby. And then _she_ left and there were more girls – oh, dear, I don't mean to imply that they were _those_ kind of girls. And then that nice young woman, Claire."

"Claire Kincaid?" Regan asked.

"Did you know her?"

Regan shook her head.

"Let me tell you, the whole floor knew how well they got on!" Mrs. Farr shook her head. "Well, you can't begrudge young people their happiness. Then – they started arguing. We all heard that, too. The same as it always goes with Mr. McCoy. I thought she'd stop coming around, like the others. And she did."

"Ma'am, Claire Kincaid – " Regan hesitated. "She was in an accident, a very serious accident." The words were familiar from dozens of death-knocks. "Her injuries were very severe and – "

"I know she died, Miss Markham," Mrs. Farr said. "I caught the lift down with Mr. McCoy the day of her funeral." Her face tightened. "Reeking of liquor, that day, every day for years after. Poor man. She used to yell at him, I used to hear her through the walls, _Jack, you say you love me, act like it_! And I used to see him, after – he got so thin, you know – used to hear him stumbling around that apartment in the middle of the night, cursing. If she'd been able to know what losing her would do to him, she would never have had any doubts."

Remembering the shape McCoy had been in when she'd first started working with him, Regan could see the picture Mrs. Farr described all-too-easily. The grey pallor ADAs called 'courtroom tan', the shadowed eyes and slumped shoulders that told of exhaustion no sleep could relieve – _it must have been a thousand times worse for him when Claire died than when Alex was murdered_ , Regan thought. She wondered if he had cried for Claire, if there had been anyone to sit with him in the dark hours of the night.

She swallowed past the lump in her throat. "He loved her very much," she said softly. "I know that. Still does, I think." _More than ten years later and when he talked about her in the car on the way back from Carthage it was like, for him, she was_ _ **there**_ _._

_From time to time I remember how much I miss her_ , he'd said. _She was_ _ **amazing**_ _._ _Very beautiful. And her looks were the least remarkable thing about her. An astonishing woman, smart and idealistic_.

And _It was all I thought about_.

"I don't sleep much," Mrs. Farr said, and Regan blinked at the non-sequitur. "That's what happens when you get to my age, I suppose. I hear him, sometimes. Walking around that apartment at three in the morning. He'd bring women home – still does – even married one of them –but he'd be walking around in the small hours, all the same." The old lady shook her head. "Save your time, Miss Markham. None of them had any better luck that you just did."

"Begging him to let them in?" Regan asked, trying to imagine some of the women McCoy had been paired with by the rumor mill here in the corridor pounding on the door.

"Metaphorically," the old lady said. "If he wasn't going to let that nice Claire Kincaid in, I don't think anyone else is going to have any luck, do you? Not after her."

Regan heard the unspoken message. _She's letting me know_ _I don't come up to the Claire Kincaid standard._

_Like I didn't know that I'm not Claire Kincaid._

_Not even close._

"Probably not, Mrs. Farr," Regan said. "But actually, I need Mr. McCoy to turn up to a court date tomorrow morning. Un-metaphorically."

"He's not one for missing work," Mrs. Farr said. "A good work ethic for that generation."

"You know, you're absolutely right," Regan said. She smiled her best non-committal police-officer smile. "I'm probably worrying about nothing."

"If getting Mr. McCoy to work _is_ what you're worrying about," the old lady said skeptically.

Regan held her gaze. "I'm worried about Mr. McCoy," she said. "Did you hear anything last week, Thursday night? Any kind of commotion?"

"Nothing. You won't save that man from himself," Mrs. Farr said, turning away. "Prettier girls than you have tried." At her own door, the old lady looked back, shaking her head. "Take it from an old, old woman, Miss Markham. I know it's an appealing idea, rescuing the suffering outlaw, seeing who he really is. But it only pans out in the movies."

"Don't worry, Mrs. Farr," Regan said. "I'm not about to save anyone."

_I well aware that I couldn't if I tried._

 

* * *

 

.oOo.


	17. Zealous Prosecution

_10_ _th_ _Floor_

_One Hogan Place_

_11 am Wednesday May 9_ _th_ _2007_

* * *

Connie turned a page, turned it back. _Statements, statements …_

She sighed and pressed two fingers to her temple, trying to avert the headache she could feel just waiting to start.

It wasn't the reading, although there was only so much time a girl could spend pouring over witness statements and police files getting a case ready for trial before she wanted to run screaming down the fire stairs and into the street.

It wasn't the pressure, although this was probably the fastest she'd ever moved from arraignment to trial.

It was the case.

She just didn't like the case.

And when she said _like_ , she didn't mean it the way she'd mean it if she thought _I don't like vanilla ice-cream._ Connie had spent enough time in the company of police officers since starting at the DA's Office for their habits of speech to have rubbed off on her, even in the privacy of her own head.

So when she rubbed her forehead again and thought _I just don't like this case_ , it wasn't an expression of personal preference. It was a considered professional opinion that carried the same implication as a detective turning to a colleague and saying _Yeah, I don't like the husband for this, I think his alibi is gonna check out._

_I don't like this case. I don't think it should have got past the Complaints Room._

Well, maybe that was unfair. A woman with a black eye and a split lip, a doctor's report and absolutely no hesitation about naming her attacker: any ADA in the Complaints Room would have filled in the paperwork and got the DA's investigators working on it.

It was the next step that Connie baulked at – escalating straight from complaint to arraignment without a pause for breath.

She shook her head, rubbed her temple again.

"Something wrong?" Mike Cutter asked from her doorway.

"A few gaps here," Connie said, choosing her words carefully.

"Such as?" He came further into her office and propped himself against the wall, hands in his pockets.

"We've got statements from the ADAs who were there at the _Lord Roberts_ that night – well, except from Markham and from me, of course."

Cutter looked at his shoes, frowning in thought. "What do you know about Regan Markham?"

"Not much," Connie said, truthful but evasive. "She's been on the tenth floor since last September, working with McCoy. Fraud before that. Solid record, nothing spectacular."

"Then why the rapid promotion?" Cutter asked.

"It was …" Connie started, and then stopped. She could tell Cutter the truth – that McCoy had burned through every ADA in the Trials Bureaus the summer after Alex Borgia was murdered, herself included. _I worked one case with him and there wasn't enough money in the world to entice me to work another_. "It was a time when Jack McCoy was working with a lot of different people," she said at last. "I guess looking for the right fit. Markham… " she shrugged. "Markham must have been it."

"And _you_ weren't," Cutter said. "Must have burned you, to be turned down, given your conviction record."

"It was my decision," Connie said.

"Because?"

"Because none-of-your-business _,_ " Connie said.

"Now come on, Connie," Cutter said. "Is it relevant to the trial? Did he try to put the moves on you like he did with Dyson? Did he – I hear he has a temper, did he – "

"No, and no, and no!" Connie said. "Listen, as far as I could tell, Jack McCoy had no idea I was even female when I worked that trial. I know his reputation, and I know _you_ know it, but there wasn't even a hint of anything inappropriate." She paused, and went on in a more measured tone, "Yes, he has a temper. And it was a bad time for him. How would you be if one of your ADA's got beaten to a pulp and shoved in a car trunk to die? Jack was – hard to deal with. I wasn't Alex Borgia, and that meant I was never going to be good enough to sit in his second chair, and he made it perfectly clear that was what he thought from the second I walked into his office."

"But not when it came to Markham."

"You'd have to ask _her_ ," Connie said. "I know half the tenth floor has heard them shouting at each other at one time or another. But they work well together."

"Hmmm," Cutter said. "And now she's defending him. Hey, do you think we should get her off the case? She's a witness, well, kind of, I can subpoena her as one, and then she can't act as his lawyer and – "

"Is she legitimately a witness?" Connie said, "To anything other than what I or half a dozen other people saw?"

"Does that matter?" Cutter asked. "If they're some kind of double-act, it'd have to throw him off balance to get a new attorney the day before opening statements."

Connie sighed. "Mike, this rush to trial – rush to _judgment_ – it doesn't sit well with me anyway. Aren't we playing hard enough hard-ball without dirty tricks?"

" _Dirty tricks_ are just what losers call winning trial tactics," Cutter said.

"Maybe in your playbook," Connie said.

"And this is my case," he reminded her sharply.

"Fine," Connie said. "So you want me to draft a subpoena?"

"No," Cutter said. "I do want to know more about Jack McCoy, though. You're right – we are rushing to trial. I want to know more about our defendant – what makes him tick – so I can explain his actions to the jury."

"Okay," Connie said. She hesitated, then took the opening. "Mike, don't you think we need a better idea of what his actions _were_?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, our whole case is based on Keri Dyson being one hundred percent truthful and one hundred percent accurate. How often does that happen?"

Cutter raised his eyebrows. "Just about never," he said. "Good point, Connie. Get the investigators busy – make sure of it. Cover all the bases."

"I'll do it myself," Connie promised.

She made a quick time-line of Keri Dyson's statement and put an asterisk next to what needed to be confirmed. _Time of leaving bar, taxi ride to McCoy's apartment, time of arrival, time she left …_

A thought struck Connie. _She said she paid for the cab_ , she thought. _Wonder if she paid cash?_

_I wonder if Keri's the sort of ADA to cut corners when it comes to office lurks and perks?_

Instead of calling one of the investigators, Connie called Colleen Petraky.

"Is there any way to check who used cab vouchers on a particular day?" she asked the chief office administrator.

"Of course," Colleen said, sounding surprised. "They all come back to us, you know, for accounting and acquittal, and get scanned in."

"Did Keri Dyson use one last Thursday night?" Connie asked.

There was a little pause on the line. "Look, Ms Rubirosa," Colleen said at last. "I understand you're doing your job. But I think that if you want to look through the records you're going to need to do like you would for any other office, and get a judge to authorize you."

"Colleen, don't hang up!" Connie said quickly. "I _am_ doing my job – the part of my job that is to make sure there's a reason for prosecution. I'm not – " She glanced around to make sure no-one was standing by her open door, and then lowered her voice and cupped her hand around the receiver. "I'm not out to hang Jack, whatever you've heard."

" _You_ might not be," Colleen said. "But you're not the only one whose opinion counts in this, are you?"

"I'm not. But I am the only one who's on his side. So help me out, Colleen. Did Keri use a cab voucher that night?"

"Hold on," Colleen said. Connie heard her keyboard in the background. "Yes. At 8.37 that night."

"Right after they left the bar," Connie said. "Does it say where from and to?"

"No," Colleen said. "Just the area. But maybe the cab driver would remember."

"Maybe," Connie said with a sigh. "Give me the name of the company and I'll start interviewing drivers."

"Oh, I can do better than that," Colleen said, a smile in her voice. "His hack number is right here on the form."

"Colleen Petraky," Connie said fervently, "You are my favorite person in the whole world."

* * *

.oOo.


	18. Prosecutorial Responsibility

_Office of Cabfair Inc_

_466 W 51st St_

_1 pm Wednesday May 9_ _th_ _2007_

* * *

"I appreciate you coming in to talk to me, Mr. Rodriguez," Connie said.

The cab driver shrugged. "I don't want no trouble," he said. "I am legal. I have no problem with the police. And I don't want to _have_ problem, you know? I have two girls, they do good in school, maybe one of them grows up to be a lady lawyer like you, if I don't have a problem and everything goes okay. So here I am."

"You won't have a problem," Connie assured him. "Mr. Rodriguez, I am with the District Attorney's Office here in Manhattan. I am investigating a crime that was committed last Thursday night. You picked up a fare that night, around a quarter to ten?"

"I picked up a lot of fares," Rodriguez said, and shrugged. "Quarter to nine, quarter to ten, who knows?"

"Okay," Connie said, "But according to the records here, and according to the cab voucher, you picked up this particular fare at 8.37pm, just near the _Lord Roberts_ in Manhattan."

"Cab voucher, yes," he said. "I remember that one, it was the only voucher fare I had that night. And I thought, nice for some, eh? To go out and get drunk and have your work pay for you to get driven home."

"Can you tell me about it?" Connie asked.

"They were two, two people, a man and a woman," he said. "A little woman, hair kinda red, nice looking. And he was older, maybe fifty? And she was okay, but he was totally out of it. I didn't want to pick them up. You know, you pick up drunks, they throw up on your seats, on the floor, sometimes they piss themselves, and who has to pay for the cleaning? I do, that's who."

"But you _did_ pick them up?" Connie prompted.

"Yes. The woman, she said she would pay if the man was sick, she let me hold a fifty to prove she was good for it. He was hardly able to stand up, she had to push him into the cab, and he passed out right away. Must have been some party!"

"Where did you take them?" Connie asked.

"Just like the log says," Rodriguez said. "I don't remember the address. An apartment building in Manhattan."

Connie looked down at the log and read the address out to him, the address she had confirmed as Jack McCoy's with a phone-call to Colleen Petraky.

"If that's what it says," Rodriguez said. "I remember I check it when I call it in. I don't remember what it was. But I know it's right."

"Okay. And that was at ten past nine," Connie said. "Did you see them go into the building?"

" _See_ them?" Rodriguez said, and snorted. "Lady, he was so far gone I have to help the girl _carry_ him inside. I told her she should think about getting him to the hospital. You know, drunk is one thing, but when a man can't even open his eyes with a lady slapping his face to wake him up, well … Is that why you're here? Did something happen to him?"

"Something happened," Connie said vaguely. "So you helped the woman carry him into the building?"

"And then the doorman took over and I went back to my cab," Rodriguez said.

"Mr. Rodriguez, do you think you could recognize them again?' Connie said. "I mean, if you saw them?"

"Like a line-up?" Rodriguez said. "Sure. I got a good look at the two of them. And I have a good memory for faces."

"Okay," Connie said. "Someone will be in touch with you, Mr. Rodriguez, to arrange a time for you to look at some photographs. They'll come to you, at a time that suits you, so you won't need to lose any time working, okay?"

"Okay," Rodriguez said. "Are you going to tell me what she did, this girl? She didn't look like the kind."

Connie paused. "What do you mean? And why do you think _she_ did something?"

"That man, he was dead to the world. What, you want me to think he maybe robbed a bank or something in his sleep? Maybe I should have – well, but the doorman was there, you know, and what should I do? She didn't look like she was going to rob him or nothing. I mean, you hear about that, the hookers? But she didn't look like a hooker. I just thought they were a couple having a nice night out that maybe got too nice for him, right?"

"It was a reasonable assumption," Connie reassured him. "No-one thinks you were at fault."

"Okay," Rodriguez said. "Because, I don't need to have – "

"A problem, right," Connie said.

On her way to McCoy's apartment building Connie called the Investigator's unit, gave them Rodriguez's details and asked for him to be shown a photo-array including pictures of Jack McCoy and Keri Dyson.

_Probably unnecessary_ , she thought as she dropped her phone back in her handbag. She didn't have any doubt that the couple Rodriguez had picked up had been McCoy and Dyson. The cab voucher was confirmation enough. _Pays to be thorough, though_.

As she hurried up the steps to the front door of McCoy's building, Connie was taken aback to see McCoy come out of the door. She paused, trying to decide whether or not she should turn around and hope he didn't see her or just brazen it out. While she was hesitating, McCoy looked up and their eyes met.

He stopped dead. "Ms Rubirosa," he said formally. Connie thought he looked almost as exhausted as he had when they had worked together the previous summer.

"Mr. McCoy," Connie said. He was above her on the steps and she had to tilt her head back to look at him.

"Do you have papers?" he asked her, and Connie realized he assumed she was there to serve a subpoena.

"No," she hurried to reassure him. "No – I – " It would be completely inappropriate for her to discuss the case with him.

"You can't tell me," McCoy said, nodding. "I assume you're here to talk to my neighbors? Or along those lines? If you are, I can tell you that I plan to be out for half-an-hour. Is that enough time for you, or would you prefer me to take a few turns around the block?"

"No, Mr. McCoy, you don't need to – " Connie said quickly. "I can do my job whether you're here or not – "

"I'm sure you can," McCoy said. He came down the steps towards her and she turned to let him past. "But I've always found it easier to talk to neighbors, family members, when the suspect or the defendant is out of the way."

Connie nodded. He had passed her when she called out impulsively: "Mr. McCoy!" He turned. "I didn't ask for this case, I wanted you to know, I didn't ask for it."

He smiled, and Connie thought he was trying to be charming, but his eyes were bleak. "You should have, Connie. It's a career-maker."

She watched him walk away down the street, the same purposeful stride she'd seen around the office and the courthouse on many occasions. He had a buff envelope under his arm and she wondered where he was going.

_You've got more relevant things to wonder_ , Connie reminded herself, and hurried inside.

The doorman was helpful but useless. No, he hadn't been working that night. Yes, of course he could give her the name of the man who _had_ been rostered on – but he doubted it would do her any good. Joe (that was his name, Joe Evatt) had called in on Monday to say he wouldn't be back for a while. Sure, Connie could have his address and phone number – but no-one had been able to get an answer from him that week. The phone just rang and rang. No, Joe didn't have a cell phone. He thought they caused –

Connie cut off the discussion of what Joe Evatt thought was caused by cell phone radiation and whether or not it might be true. She tried his number from her own cell phone, radiation be damned, and got no answer.

_What now?_

She checked her watch. She had time to talk to McCoy's neighbors.

Neither Louise Farr on one side of McCoy nor Ben Kelly on the other had heard anything on the night in question.

"And I would have, dear," Mrs. Farr added. "Not that I stand up against the wall with a glass to my ear, but you know how it is in apartments."

"Sure," Connie said, nodding.

"I mean, I could tell you the names of every woman he's brought home, probably," Mrs. Farr said. "So when I say, there wasn't any commotion, you can believe me."

Connie nodded again, thinking to herself, _Problem is, I do._

_I do believe you._

_But will Mike Cutter?_

* * *

.oOo.


	19. Dress Rehearsal

_Supreme Court Building_

_8 pm Wednesday May 9_ _th_ _2007_

* * *

Regan climbed the stairs to the courthouse and turned left at the colonnades to the after-hours entrance. She gave her name to the security guard and waited while he called it in.

Her head ached. She and Danielle Melnick and Nora Lewin had spent hours working on her opening statement for the next morning – _an opening statement I still haven't persuaded Jack to let me give_ – until Rey Curtis had dropped off his background research on Keri Dyson. Danielle had left to go through Keri's history and background while Nora and Regan to kept working.

Regan had drafted opening and closing arguments for McCoy before – _first_ drafts, setting out the facts and the law of the case, to which McCoy had then added the polish and the drama, the indefinable Jack-McCoy-touch.

_Impossible to define, and, at least as far as_ _**I'm** _ _concerned, impossible to replicate._

"You're good to go through, Ms Markham," the security guard said, breaking in to her stream of thought. "Do you know where you're going?"

"Yes," Regan said.

Once inside, though, she thought that maybe she should have asked for directions after all. The courthouse looked different at night, with the windows showing the city lights and the overhead lights switched off. It was disorienting enough for her to miss the right staircase and have to backtrack, but when she gave up looking around and let her feet take her on autopilot , she soon found herself standing in the right corridor.

Danielle Melnick was already there, and Regan saw Nora Lewin coming toward them from the other direction with a slim woman with short brown hair, dressed casually in jeans and a T-shirt.

"Regan," Nora said as the four of them converged at a closed courtroom door. "I'd like to introduce you to Jamie Ross."

"Judge Ross," Regan said, holding out her hand.

"I'm _Jamie_ ," Jamie Ross said, taking Regan's hand in a firm grip. "At least, at this hour of the night I am."

"We appreciate your help, Jamie," Danielle said.

Jamie took a bunch of keys from her pocket and turned to the courtroom door. "Well, _I'd_ appreciate it if you didn't appreciate it too publicly, if you know what I mean." She unlocked the door and pushed it open.

"Are you going to get jammed up over this?" Regan asked apprehensively.

"It wouldn't look good on my resume, put it that way," Jamie said, and then shrugged. "But it's hardly a hanging offence."

The others followed Jamie Ross into the empty courtroom.

"I'll leave you," Jamie said. "I'll be in my chambers. Let me know when you're done so I can lock up."

As she left, Regan turned to Danielle. "Why _is_ she taking this kind of risk to help us?"

"She's helping Jack," Danielle said. "You know she used to have your job?"

"Jamie _Ross_ ," Regan said. "Of course. I'd forgotten." As the courtroom door opened and Sally Bell came in with a young woman Regan didn't recognize, Regan said to Danielle: "There's a lot of goodwill toward Jack, isn't there?"

"And a lot of _ill_ -will," Danielle said dryly. "Regan, this is Susan Kawoski. She's a drama student at Hudson. I've hired her to play the part of Keri Dyson this evening."

"Hello," Regan said. Susan Kawoski didn't look a lot like Keri Dyson – she was slim, with close-cropped dark hair and slightly Oriental features.

"Hi," Susan said.

"Susan has signed a contract. She's legally part of the defense, covered by privilege, and understands the importance of confidentiality. I've used her for this kind of work before," Danielle said. "Susan, why don't you go and sit in the front row until we're ready for you."

"I'll be your second chair," Sally said to Regan, going to the defense table. "When Serena gets here – "

"I'm here," Serena said from the door, a little breathlessly.

"How'd you go with Dr Jordan?" Regan asked.

"I have a deposition," Serena said, striding down the aisle and dropping her briefcase on the prosecution table. "Dr Jordan hasn't even been in Manhattan since 2005, and then only for a visit. Last Thursday night he was on an overnight shift at Baltimore General, with about ten colleagues and assorted patients, nurses, and EMTs able to establish he couldn't possibly have nipped up to New York to treat Keri Dyson. He has no idea how his signature got on that medical report."

"Someone forged his signature?" Danielle asked.

"Well, if they did," Serena said, "We'll find out. I got him to sign his name about a hundred times and I also got notarized copies of papers he's signed over the past few years under different circumstances. We can get them compared to the copies of the report we got through discovery."

"I have a good lab we can use," Danielle said. "I'll drop them off first thing in the morning."

Serena nodded. "Okay," she said. "So, I'm the prosecution?"

"That's right," Nora said. Regan turned to see that the former DA had climbed up to sit in the judge's chair.

"And I'm the jury," Danielle said, opening the gate to the jury box. She chose a chair in the middle of the front row and settled herself in it with a legal pad in her lap. "Are you ready, Regan?"

Regan swallowed hard and nodded. She walked to the defense table and sat down in the chair nearest the aisle, the chair she'd sit in tomorrow.

"You'll be fine," Sally murmured encouragingly.

"You won't be here tomorrow," Regan said.

"I'm in court," Sally said.

"And Jack won't agree to a second lawyer at the table," Regan said.

_It'll just be me – and him._

_And he's as much of a problem as Michael Cutter._

A sudden wave of panic made her stomach cramp and her hands sweat.

Regan took a deep breath and pushed it aside. _You're a lawyer_ , _act like one,_ McCoy had said to her once, the very first bit of advice he had ever given her. _Lesson one, Ms Markham._

Serena was on her feet, opening her case, her measured steady voice setting out the allegations against McCoy. Regan envied her composure. What had McCoy said to her in the car on the way back from Carthage? _Don't sell yourself short – defense lawyers can sense uncertainty._

She could almost hear his slightly hoarse voice saying the words, almost feel his hand covering hers.

_Juries and prosecutors, too_ , Regan thought. She took a deep breath, pushing aside her nagging worries about the next day and her stomach-clenching awareness of how miserably inadequate she was to the task ahead. _Think like a lawyer, just like Jack told you that you had to after Conroy confessed to the Walker murder. Think like a lawyer, act like a lawyer, don't show uncertainty._

For the first time, sitting in the courtroom as first chair, without Jack McCoy's considerable experience and expertise between her and any major mistakes, Regan realized how much of his advice had been preparing her for the courtroom, rather than the other aspects of a prosecutor's workload that she more usually handled.

_You never get the ideal circumstances in a courtroom, Regan. Your job is to work with what you have. Winning is everything in the courtroom._ _Justice is the by-product of winning._

Once she had lived her life by the lessons of an old man's hard-won wisdom, a life-time on the force distilled down to rules for Regan to live by. _Stand by your partner. Keep your head in the game._ But her world had turned.

She had new rules to add now, new lessons.

_Winning is everything._

Rules as ill-built for the quotidian as any of her great-grandfather's lawman lessons, but that would equally well suit her to do her job, if only she could follow them closely enough.

Serena finished her statement and sank back into her chair.

Regan took a deep breath and rose to her feet.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury," she began, hoping no-one else could hear the slight quaver in her voice, "this case is a classic test of the age-old legal principle 'innocent until proven guilty'."

They had argued about this, she and Danielle and Nora. _We have to do more than put the prosecution to proof!_ Regan had said. ' _Not proven' might be an acquittal but not in the court of public opinion!_

Danielle had been firm. _We don't have any proof for an alternate theory of the crime_ , she'd insisted. _If you preview it for the jury in your opening, and we can't turn anything up, your credibility will be shot. But if we do find anything, the discovery of new evidence_ _ **during**_ _the trial gives you reason to change tack – legal reason, but more importantly, a reason the jury will believe. They'll listen to you say 'Your honor, we only just found this witness', and they'll think 'She always knew he was innocent but she's only just found the proof'. So open with 'innocent until proven guilty'. Open with the weakness in the prosecution case. Open with their inability to prove that Jack's guilty. If we can do more later, if we can prove that he's innocent and not just 'not guilty', we will. But until we can prove it …_

Regan had yielded to Danielle's vastly greater experience. Now, as she recited the words the three of them had drafted that afternoon, the phrases felt dead and empty in her mouth.

When she finished she looked around to see the others' reactions. There was a moment of silence.

"Well," Danielle said at last, "We can work on that some more tomorrow morning."

Regan nodded, and went back to her seat.

Serena rose to her feet. "The People call Keri Dyson."

It was standard operating procedure, in a crime with a living victim, for the prosecution to open with their chief witness. It gave the crime an immediate human face for the jury to identify with. _And it gives me an immediate problem_ , Regan thought as the young actress playing 'Keri Dyson' walked to the stand. _We haven't had enough time to find out anything that might impeach her. Even a few days could give us that opportunity. But tomorrow …_

Serena as the 'prosecutor' took 'Keri' through her testimony, the actress sticking closely to the actual statement and deposition Keri Dyson had made. Serena was an experienced attorney, and her questions didn't give Regan grounds to object. She jumped to her feet a few times anyway, trying to break the flow of 'Keri's' testimony. _Objection – asked and answered. Objection – calls for speculation. Objection – calls for a conclusion. Objection – irrelevant. Objection – lack of foundation._

'Judge' Nora Lewin overruled her each time.

Then it was her turn.

Regan gathered her thoughts. _Need to destroy her credibility._ She didn't have much to do it with.

"Ms Dyson, you've testified that you and Mr. McCoy travelled from the _Lord Roberts_ to his apartment by taxi, is that correct?" she asked.

"Yes," 'Keri' answered.

"And that Mr. McCoy seemed somewhat intoxicated?"

"Yes."

"What do you mean by 'somewhat' intoxicated?" Regan asked.

"I mean, he seemed to be under the influence of alcohol," 'Keri' said.

"More than could be explained by the number of drinks he'd consumed?"

"Objection, your honor," Serena said calmly. "The witness has no way of knowing the defendant's tolerance for alcohol."

"Sustained," Nora said.

_Damn_. Regan looked down at her notes. "You told the court that on reaching Mr. McCoy's apartment, you assisted him upstairs?"

"Yes."

"Because he was so intoxicated that he couldn't use the elevator by himself?"

"Because he asked me," 'Keri' said, "And I was concerned."

"Because he was extremely intoxicated?" Regan asked quickly.

"No. Because I was concerned," 'Keri' said.

"And when you got to Mr. McCoy's apartment, who unlocked the door?" Regan asked.

"He did," 'Keri' said.

Regan bit her lip. _If she'd said that she did I could try again to get her to admit that he was far more drunk than three drinks could explain_.

"At the bar, you were observed engaging in behavior of an intimate nature with Mr. McCoy," she began, trying a different tack.

"Objection – counsel is testifying," Serena said.

"Sustained," Nora said.

"Ms Dyson, would it surprise you to know that others at the bar are prepared to testify that you were observed engaging in behavior of an intimate nature?" Regan tried.

"I'm never surprised by what people say," 'Keri' responded smoothly.

"Were you, in fact, engaging in such behavior?"

"I'm not sure what you mean by 'intimate'," 'Keri' said.

"Quote: They were all over each other like teenagers," Regan said.

"Objection, facts not in evidence," Serena said.

"I am prepared to table depositions from witnesses," Regan said. _Or, I will be, if Serena gets them in time tomorrow morning._

"The People have had no notice of these depositions," Serena said.

"Are your witnesses prepared to testify?" Nora asked Regan.

"Yes, your honor," Regan said.

"Then call them to the stand at the appropriate time," Nora said.

"I have the right to impeach this witness," Regan protested.

"Not by trying to slip untested allegations in as statements of fact. Move on, counselor."

"Ms Dyson, would it surprise you to learn that the doctor whose signature appears on the medical file you gave to the prosecution as evidence of your assault does not work at the hospital where you were treated?"

"Yes," 'Keri' said.

"Do you have any explanation for how your chart was signed by a doctor who has been working in Baltimore for more than five years?"

"I can't explain it," 'Keri' said. "I didn't ask the doctor to see his driver's license or whatever. Do you check ID when you go to the ER?"

"Isn't it the truth, Ms Dyson, that you weren't treated at Mercy ER at all?" Regan asked, trying to imitate Jack McCoy's quick pounce on a witness's inconsistencies. _  
_

'Keri' was unmoved. "I was treated there," she said.

And no matter what tack Regan tried, the young actress playing Keri Dyson remained sure of her story. Regan tried to hammer a wedge into every potential crack in the allegations Keri Dyson had made, her head beginning to swim with questions and answers, objections and rulings.

After a while she felt as if she had been on her feet, in this courtroom, with this witness, for days rather than hours. _Ms Dyson, isn't it the case … Objection – inflammatory. Sustained. Ms Dyson, how do you explain … Objection – Calls for speculation. Sustained. Ms Dyson, isn't the jury entitled to wonder … Objection – asked and answered. Sustained. Ms Dyson, you were seen … Objection – counsel is testifying again. Sustained. Ms Dyson, you bought Mr. McCoy several drinks … Objection – perhaps counsel would like to take the stand herself?_

"That's enough," Danielle said at last.

Regan sank into her seat at the defense table, knees trembling. Her shirt was drenched with sweat, sticking to her skin beneath her suit.

"Thank you, Susan," Danielle said. "Would you wait outside in the hall for a few minutes? I'll walk you out when we're done here."

"Sure," Susan Kawoski said, stepping down from the witness stand.

Danielle waited until the courtroom doors had closed behind the young woman before saying: "Comments, anyone?"

"I don't know where to start," Sally Bell muttered beside Regan.

Regan felt her stomach clench. "I know that I was terrible," she said defensively.

"You weren't terrible," Serena said. "You had a tough job."

"It's always a little bit different with an actor," Danielle said, stepping down from the jury box. "If the witness they're playing lied, the actor doesn't know about it. They don't make the same mistakes, or show the same signs of stress when they're lying."

"Keri Dyson is an experienced attorney, though," Nora said, joining Danielle in the well of the court. "She won't be an easy witness to wrong-foot."

"I'll do better," Regan said.

"You'll need to," Sally said bluntly. "Don't look at me like that, Danielle. It's true. This is Jack's _life_ we're talking about.

"We'll be in better shape tomorrow," Danielle said brusquely. "Regan, spin out jury selection as long as you can. Serena will track down those witnesses and get the depositions we need. I'll get you the report on Dr Jordan's signature. We've already got his deposition – whoever signed that chart, it wasn't him. You'll have more ammunition, a lot more, when you get Dyson on the stand."

"I'll need it," Regan said quietly. "Won't I?"

None of them answered her, but their faces told her everything she needed to know.

* * *

.oOo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're wondering what Regan is referring to when she remembers McCoy's advice to her, she is thinking back to conversations they have had in earlier stories.


	20. Reckless Endangerment

_Trial Part 3_

_Supreme Court 100 Centre St_

_9.30 am Thursday May 10_ _th_ _2007_

 

* * *

 

Regan sat with her hands folded in front of her, listening to the judge charge the prospective jurors. She felt as if she could feel the stares of the crowd in the body of the courtroom like a bull's-eye painted between her shoulder-blades.

_They aren't looking at you,_ she chided herself, resisting the urge to turn around and make sure. _If they're looking at anyone, they're looking at the judge._

_Or at Jack._

Nonetheless, she felt the presence of the crowd as a pressure against her back. Some were journalists, some were looky-loos, some were friends or enemies of Jack McCoy. Together, they filled the seats and benches behind the bar.

_It's standing room only back there_ , Regan thought.

_And if it makes me nervous, how does Jack feel?_

_How many of those people are here hoping to see him go down?_

_Focus, girl! Your partner needs you to have your head in the game._

Regan looked back to the list of questions for the _voir dire_ in front of her, most of them going to the same two points – had they or anyone they were close to ever been the victim of a crime like the one at issue here? And had they or anyone they were close to ever been prosecuted by Jack McCoy?

The written questionnaires would flush out those honest about those key facts. Regan hoped her carefully drafted questions would flush out the others. She would have liked another, more experienced trial lawyer beside her, someone whose judgment she could rely on – but Danielle was across town having Dr Jordan's signatures examined by experts, Serena was chasing the ADAs like Qiao Chen and Bill Fitzgerald who had been at the _Lord Roberts_ that night, Sally was in court representing her _own_ clients, and Nora had admitted to Regan as she took a seat in the front row behind the defense that it had been fifteen years since she'd been in a courtroom to represent a client.

Regan stole a glance at the lawyer who _was_ sitting beside her, a trial lawyer whose experience dwarfed not only her own but most of the lawyers she'd ever met, whose keen judgment and mastery of courtroom tactics had resulted in wins against impossible odds. Jack McCoy was looking straight ahead, his face set, and Regan sighed. She couldn't expect any help from him.

_At least he's here_.

McCoy had turned up at the courthouse as the clock struck nine, and as Regan had watched him stride up the steps toward her she had been visited by the sudden irrational conviction that the past week had been nothing more than a nightmare, that McCoy would head past her to the courthouse doors and she would fall into step beside him, fielding his question about their witnesses for the day …

For just an instant, relief washed over her, sweet as a cool breeze on an August day. Then McCoy looked up and saw her waiting. His face was bleak, and Regan thought that the coldness in his eyes chilled another few degrees when he saw her. The illusion of relief vanished. _This is real. This is happening_.

He had responded in monosyllables when she spoke to him, not looking at her. It was clear that as far as he was concerned the argument they had had on Tuesday night was still ongoing. With neither the time nor the privacy to try again to talk some sense into him, Regan had concentrated on getting them both into the courtroom on time and making it clear to McCoy that she was going to take jury selection seriously, _voir dire_ , challenges and all.

She stole another glance at him. Usually McCoy was the picture of relaxation in the courtroom, completely at home, leaning back in his chair with one arm resting casually on the bar. Today he sat bolt upright, eyes fixed straight ahead, his hands folded on the table. _No, definitely no help there_.

The jury filled in their questionnaires and the clerk gave copies to Mike Cutter and Connie Rubirosa, and to Regan. She began to separate them into piles, stacking the ones she would challenge for cause together on one side of the table and ranking the rest, the ones she was most concerned about on top.

It was only mid-morning but Regan already felt exhausted. She'd woken before dawn out of a confused dream of _gunfire_ in One Hogan Place and _screaming_ from outside her office door and _Help me, El, help me, it hurts, oh god, it hurts …_

She'd spent an hour writing a list of all the questions they needed to have answers for if they had any hope of winning the case. _Is Dr Jordan's signature forged? Was it Keri who drugged Jack's drink?_ Usually Regan found the exercise calming, breaking the case down into manageable inquiries, steps that she had to take to get it trial-ready for McCoy, but that was when she had time to find the answers. This morning, she had been left with a churning stomach and a list of things she couldn't even begin to guess the answers to.

After a few minutes staring at the questions she'd listed, Regan had picked up her pen again, and added: _What the hell is wrong with Jack McCoy?_

She had stared at the question as if the words would dissolve and reform in the shape of an answer until the doorbell had told her Danielle Melnick had arrived to try and knock her opening statement into better shape.

That redrafted speech was tucked at the back of her file, ready for her to refresh her memory after jury selection.

Regan put another questionnaire into the 'no' pile, and glanced again at McCoy. _Not that there's any indication I'm likely to need that opening statement._

She stretched out the jury selection process as long as she could, using every second of the time allotted to _voire dire_ , pondering her challenges, both for cause and peremptory, until Judge Wright's tapping fingers let her know that any advantage she gained through delay was likely to be negated by annoying the judge.

As the judge gave his pre-trial instructions to the empanelled jurors, Regan glanced over her shoulder to catch Nora's eye. As she did she saw Danielle Melnick slip in through the back door of the court, expression grim.

Danielle slipped into the front row beside Nora, who moved along a little to make room for her.

Regan leaned back over the bar and whispered: "What have you got?"

"Not great news," Danielle answered, equally softly. "The experts are ninety percent positive that it's Rob Jordan's signature on the copy of that chart. Either he's lying to us or there's some other explanation."

"He has dozens of witnesses," Regan said. "Do you think he's lying?"

"I think that Serena needs to get back on the train and ask those witnesses if Dr Jordan really _was_ in Baltimore General that night," Danielle said. "And I think that I'd like to have the originals of those records examined."

"Ms Markham," Judge Wright said, and Regan whipped round to face the front of the court again.

"Sorry, your honor," she said hastily.

Wright acknowledged her apology with a nod. "Mr. Cutter," he said. "Are you ready to proceed?"

Mike Cutter rose to his feet. "Yes, your honor," he said.

Regan hastily pulled a legal pad toward her and grabbed a pen, ready to take notes of the points Cutter would make in his opening, points she would need to be ready to rebut – or at least confuse. Her mind was whirling. _How can Dr Jordan's signature be on a chart he never signed?_ She would have to strike out the part of her prepared opening that foreshadowed the defense discrediting the medical report, since she couldn't be sure that they would, in fact, be able to discredit it. _And that means we don't have much to impeach Keri Dyson …_

Cutter was talking, and Regan forced herself to put aside her worries and concentrate.

"You know, I joined the District Attorney's Office for a lot of reasons," Cutter said. His tone was conversational, his bearing relaxed. _I'm just a regular guy_ , Regan wrote on her pad. "The pay's not great, but the health plan is excellent," Cutter went on with a grin. Regan saw three of the jurors smile back. _Oh, shit_ , she wrote. "But there was one thing about this job that really sold me." Cutter let his smile drop away, looking from one juror to the next. "When someone in this city is mugged, or beaten – when a child is hurt, a shopkeeper robbed, a woman raped – there's one place they turn to for justice. The DA's Office. We don't chase criminals down the street, and we don't investigate crimes and arrest people – but we are the ones who stand here in the courtroom and fight for rights of the victims to have their pain recognized, and to have the wrong that was done to them repaid with justice."

Cutter shrugged a little, then put his hands in his pockets. "That's a lot of responsibility. Sometimes I look around my office, at all the files that represent victims who depend on me to get them justice, and I really feel the weight of them, you know? I wonder how arrogant he must have been, that young lawyer called Michael Cutter, to think he was really the best person qualified person to be the one they all depend on." Cutter smiled ruefully. Regan, already beginning to rise from her seat to object, saw jurors returning his smile. _They like him_ , she thought _, don't make them chose between us, not yet._ She sank back silently.

Cutter shook his head, taking a step backwards, growing serious again. "But ladies and gentlemen, I can tell you one thing. I come in here and I do my best, my very best, for every victim, against every perpetrator. I joined the DA's Office because I wanted to be on the side of the good guys. I wanted to be one of the men and women who stand up for the law, stand up for the victims, stand up for the people of this city. That's what it says on the indictment, by the way. It doesn't say 'District Attorney against So-and-So' or 'Prosecution against What's-his-name'. It says 'People against Jack McCoy'. I'm here to represent the People – people like you, who just want to go along living their lives without being robbed, or threatened, or T-boned by a drunk driver – or attacked. And when I joined the DA's Office, I knew I was joining people who were just as committed, just as dedicated, to the law, to justice, as I was."

Cutter paused, shoulders slumping, sorrow on his face.

"Or so I thought. But this week, I learned that not _everyone_ in our office was committed and dedicated to the law, to justice. I learned – "

"Objection, your honor," Regan said, trying to make her voice even and moderate, the voice of sweet reason rather than sounding like an angry lawyer beating up on that nice Mr. Cutter. "Counsel's opinion – "

"Sustained," Judge Wright said. "Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, Mr. Cutter's personal opinion of this case is not relevant, and not the appropriate subject of an opening statement. Please disregard it. Mr. Cutter, please limit yourself to the prosecution's case, not how it makes you _feel_."

"Your honor, this case – this defendant – the way it strikes at the heart of the people's trust in justice – " Cutter tried again.

"Your honor?" Regan said.

"Sustained. Mr. Cutter." Wright glared at the prosecutor, who shrugged his shoulders and spread his hands in defeat.

"Well, let's look at the case," he said to the jury, his tone adding _since the judge won't let me tell you the real story_. "The case I'm bringing before you here today is one that I never thought I'd have to argue. The defendant, Mr. McCoy, has been a colleague of mine, has been a prosecutor in this jurisdiction for more than thirty years. Has been one of those you depend on to _uphold_ the law. But, as I will prove to you through the course of this trial, Mr. McCoy's apparent commitment to the principles and values that guide the representatives of the People was not as deep or as solid as we all thought. On Thursday last week, Mr. McCoy attended a collegial gathering of prosecutors at a local bar. He left that gathering with one of the young ADAs he is responsible for supervising. You will hear evidence that this is not – "

"Objection!" Regan snapped, forgetting to make her voice appropriately gentle. "Mr. Cutter is referring to inadmissible – "

"Your honor hasn't ruled on admissibility," Cutter said reasonably.

"If you had notified defense at discovery of your intent to pursue this line of argument," Regan retorted, "You know very well it would have been the subject of a Brady hearing." She glanced at the jury. "Approach, your honor?"

"Come on up," Wright said, beckoning both Regan and Cutter.

Cutter clearly was the kind of lawyer who believed that attack was the best form of defense. _Like someone else I could mention,_ Regan thought. "Your honor, I am not _required_ to give the defense a preview of my case. I have notified of all witnesses I intend to call. If Ms Markham thinks – "

"You're trying to set a skunk loose in the courtroom in your opening when you know very well your witnesses won't be able to testify in support of your imputations!" Regan hissed.

"You don't _know_ they won't be able to testify," Cutter pointed out. "That's up to the judge."

"The _evidence_ that Mr. Cutter is relying on to justify his opening is inadmissible on the ground of hearsay, inadmissible on the ground of relevance, inadmissible on the ground of character, and inadmissible on the grounds of prejudice," Regan said. "Your honor, I seek an immediate Brady on this matter."

"Too late, Ms Markham," Judge Wright said. "Trial's started. You should have foreseen this."

"Yes, your honor, I should have, and I should hate to see my client suffer an appealable conviction due to my incompetence," Regan said quickly.

Wright chuckled. "Threatening the trial judge with appeal – straight from the Jack McCoy playbook. And you, Mr. Cutter – I am putting you on a very short leash. I can see what you're doing. If you introduce in your opening statement facts that cannot be supported by admissible evidence, I will declare a mistrial at the close of your case. How would that look on your CV?"

"Better than an acquittal, your honor," Cutter said with a cocky smile.

"Don't be so sure," Wright warned.

Regan walked back to her seat, palms sweating. She caught Danielle's eye and the other lawyer gave her an encouraging smile. Regan tried to return it, but her face felt stiff and she thought her expression was probably closer to a grimace. She sank into her chair and picked up her pen. _Jack's history_ , she wrote on her pad, and underlined it.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Cutter continued, "You will hear evidence that Mr. McCoy left the bar in the company of a young subordinate, Ms Keri Dyson. You will hear that they seemed to be on affectionate terms – at least from Jack McCoy's side. You will hear that no-one was surprised to see this."

"Mr. Cutter," the judge said warningly.

"And you will hear," Cutter went on smoothly, "that Ms Dyson, concerned that Jack McCoy was too intoxicated to find his own way home safely, accompanied him. That she assisted him into his building, and into his apartment." He shrugged. "You might have an opinion of the character of the kind of man whose use of alcohol affects his behavior to such a degree. But Jack McCoy isn't on trial here today for being – "

"Objection!" Regan said, on her feet before she knew it.

"Mr. Cutter," Wright said wearily.

"For being drunk," Cutter said. "Or for any other aspects of his behavior. He's on trial because once Keri Dyson had made sure he was safely in his own home, he assumed her concern was inspired by a more – _intimate_ – motivation. And when he attempted to initiate sexual relations with this young woman who worked for him, and she rebuffed him, his reaction was not mere disappointment." Cutter turned to look at McCoy, who sat staring straight ahead. "His reaction was violent. You will hear how he struck her – not once, or lightly, although that would have been a crime. You will hear how he took her by the throat and punched her in the face, once – " Cutter turned back to the jury, bringing his clenched fist into the palm of his other hand. "Twice." Again his fist smacked into his hand, and beside her, Regan felt McCoy flinch. She put her hand over his, feeling the tendons standing out like wires beneath her fingers. "Three times." _Smack_.

Still not looking at Regan, McCoy jerked his hand out from under hers. His face was impassive, but Regan thought he looked pale, and there were beads of sweat at his hairline.

"Jack …" she murmured softly.

He didn't even glance her way. "Do the job I hired you to do," he murmured harshly.

"We will prove these facts, as unpalatable as they are – as unpalatable and disappointing as I find them," Cutter said. "I know that it is hard to believe that a man with Jack McCoy's history of public service can be a criminal. But if there's anything I've learnt in my years in this job, it's that anyone is capable of anything, if the circumstances are right. And if there's one single value I've learnt to put above all others, it's that _no-one_ is above the law."

Cutter walked back to the prosecution table. Regan looked at her notes, then quickly glanced at the statement Danielle and Nora had helped her draft. She began to rise to her feet.

McCoy's hand shot out and closed hard on her wrist. "No opening," he said.

"Jack, he's killing us!" Regan hissed, excruciatingly aware of the jurors' eyes on them. "I have to – "

" _No. Opening._ " McCoy ground out. He met her gaze for the first time since they'd walked into the courtroom, cold fury in his eyes. "Those are my instructions."

* * *

.oOo.


	21. No Contest

" _No. Opening._ " McCoy said harshly, gaze holding Regan's. "Those are my instructions." His fingers bit into her wrist.

_The Code of Professional Responsibility_ left Regan no choice but to nod. Her stomach twisted. _Help me Ellie, oh god, it hurts, help me…_ Cutter wastearing McCoy to pieces in front of her, and she was helpless to stop it.

She turned to the judge. "Defense has no statement at this time," she said, and sank back into her seat.

McCoy released her wrist, and Regan put her hands in her lap, out of sight of the jury, and unobtrusively rubbed at the livid marks his fingers had left, working her fingers to restore feeling. She glanced angrily at McCoy and was surprised to see what seemed to be a look of horror on his face. _He's come to his senses two seconds too late_ , she thought, and leaned toward him.

"Don't worry, I can still open at the beginning of our case," she reassured him.

"What?" McCoy asked hoarsely, as if her words made no sense to him, as if she were speaking a foreign language he had to travel a great distance to hear.

"Don't worry – " Regan said again.

"I'm not worried," McCoy said dismissively, and turned his attention back to the front of the courtroom.

Regan turned as well. In her peripheral vision she could see Cutter watching the defense table. She cut her eyes to the right to see him better, but couldn't read his expression. _Don't know him well enough_. Was he curious? Speculative? Pleased with himself?

_All of the above_ , Regan concluded.

Looking at the jury, Regan thought that Mike Cutter had every reason to be pleased with himself. The jury had heard the dog-whistle he'd been blowing – _Jack McCoy is an alcoholic womanizer_ – and he'd successfully provoked her into forgetting the importance of the jury's opinion of her. When Regan caught the gaze of one of the women in the jury, the woman quickly looked away. _Bad sign_ , Regan thought, her stomach turning.

"Mr. Cutter, are you ready to proceed?" Wright asked.

"Yes," Cutter said.

_Here we go. Keri Dyson. And I got nothing._

"The people call Dr Elizabeth Rodgers," Cutter said.

As the call went out into the hallway, Regan stared at Cutter. _He's not calling Dyson. Not yet._

A reprieve. But Regan didn't feel reprieved. _What's Cutter up to_?

Liz Rodgers strode down the aisle, through gate and across the well. She settled herself in the witness stand and took the oath in a crisp voice.

"Dr Rodgers, you are the Chief Medical Examiner for New York City, correct?" Cutter asked.

"That's right," Rodgers said. To Regan, she sounded pissed off at the question. _But then, Liz Rodgers always sounds pissed off about something._

"I'm showing you a medical report," Cutter said, picking up a file from the prosecution table and walking toward the witness stand.

Regan scrambled to her feet. "Your honor, I'd like to be heard on the question of the admissibility of that report," she said quickly, grabbing Dr Jordan's affidavit.

"You can't be pretending there's a discovery issue," Cutter said in mock astonishment. "You've had this report since day one."

"Approach," Wright said wearily.

"Your honor," Regan said as she reached the bench, hurrying to keep Cutter from getting a word in edgewise, "defense was provided with a _copy_ of this report, but without the opportunity to examine the original."

"You could have requested that at any time," Cutter countered.

"Evidence has only just come to light that cast doubt on the veracity of this document," Regan said desperately. "Given this, and the best evidence rule – "

"Which doesn't prohibit mechanically produced copies – " Cutter interrupted.

"Except where a party has raised a genuine question about the accuracy of the copy," Regan said.

"I've yet to hear your genuine question," Wright said to her.

"Your honor, defense has an affidavit from the doctor whose signature appears on that document, stating that he did not treat Keri Dyson, does not work at Mercy and was not in Manhattan on the night in question," Regan said. She glanced at Cutter and thought he looked genuinely surprised. "Given this, defense seeks to have the report Mr. Cutter is about to tender in evidence subjected to expert examination and testing."

"That doesn't sound unreasonable, Mr. Cutter," Wright said, "Even if it is a motion that should have been made _in limine._ Do you have any knowledge of this discrepancy?"

"None, your honor," Cutter said.

"I'll tell you what I'll do," Wright said. "You, Mr. Cutter, can continue on this line. But you will make the original document available to the defense for their testing _immediately_. I will take _judicial_ notice of the results of these tests. And if the document turns out to be a forgery, the jury will hear about it – from the bench, not just from the defense."

Cutter glanced down at the file he held. "Your honor, the People have a notarized copy of this document, not the original."

"Well, _get_ the original," Wright ordered. "Get your complaining witness to sign a release and get the original file from the hospital."

"Yes, your honor," Cutter said.

"And, Ms Markham, I'm warning you, if you're playing fast-and-loose here, I won't be happy," Wright said.

"I can present the affidavits to you immediately, your honor," Regan said, doing just that. "My associate was about to return to Baltimore to interview witnesses who can confirm Dr Jordan's presence in Baltimore on the night – "

"Get your DA's investigators on it," Wright ordered Cutter. He held out the affidavit Regan had handed up to his clerk. "Copy to the People," he instructed.

"Your honor, it's never been the responsibility of the prosecution to support defense – " Cutter started.

"You are running very close to EC 7-13," Wright said.

"I think that's debatable," Cutter said.

"I guarantee you the chance of debating it before the ethics committee," Wright said. "Evidence has been brought to your attention that a key piece of prosecution evidence may be unreliable. Follow it up!"

"Yes, your honor," Cutter said, conceding.

"Carry on, both of you," Wright said, shooing them back toward the tables.

As Regan took her seat she saw Cutter lean over to speak to Connie Rubirosa. The ADA's eyes widened, and she got hastily to her feet and left the courtroom. _Chasing down the original document,_ Regan thought to herself, _and the Baltimore witnesses. And, I hope to God, asking Keri Dyson a few very pointed questions._

"What the hell were you doing?" McCoy asked her angrily.

"I can't stipulate to this exhibit and then challenge it later on the basis of evidence that is already in my possession," Regan said. She looked over the bar to Danielle Melnick for support.

"Best of bad choices," Danielle said, nodding. "I hate tipping my hand this early, but sometimes you don't have an option."

"You've no substantive reason to challenge it at all," McCoy said.

"The man who signed it was in another city at the time," Regan said. "That's substantive. Now shut up and let me do my job."

"You might need these," Danielle said, leaning forward to hand Regan a sheaf of papers. "Depositions from the ADAs at the bar that night."

"I think Cutter's going to call them and try to get character in by the back door," Regan said. "What do I do?"

"Get used to the words 'Objection – inadmissible under _Molineux_ ',' Danielle said with an elegant shrug.

Regan gave Danielle one last imploring look and turned back to watch Mike Cutter continue his cross-examination.

"Dr Rodgers, I'm showing you a copy of a medical report, People's 1," Cutter resumed. "Will you tell the jury what it shows?"

"It's an ER report from Mercy General," Rodgers said, sounding bored. "Patient's name Keri Dyson, treated in the small hours of May 4 this year."

"Last Friday," Cutter prompted.

"If you say so, I don't have a calendar handy," Rodgers said dismissively. "Anyway, according to this chart, Ms Dyson was treated for facial contusions and a fractured cheekbone by Dr Rob Jordan."

"What is your expert opinion on the cause of these injuries?" Cutter asked.

"Two or three blows to the face," Rodgers said.

Regan glanced at the jury and saw them rapt. She looked at McCoy. He was staring straight ahead, back ramrod straight.

"With a weapon?" Cutter asked.

"Probably with a fist," Rodgers said.

"Severe blows?" Cutter asked.

"It's hard to comment without having examined Ms Dyson," Rodgers said.

"But if pressed?"

"Asked and answered," Regan objected, and Wright nodded.

"Move on, Mr. Cutter," he advised.

"Any other injuries?" Cutter asked.

"Bruising to the neck consistent with the patient having been held by the neck, perhaps choked," Rodgers said, and Regan heard McCoy's breath catch. Rodgers flipped the file closed. "It's my opinion that these impacts would have left corresponding marks on the hand of the – "

"Thank you, Dr Rodgers," Cutter said, cutting her off. He turned toward Regan. "Your witness."

Regan began to stand. McCoy reached as if to take her wrist again but stopped abruptly before he touched her. "No cross," he instructed.

"Jack!" Regan said, bending toward him and trying to keep her voice too low for Cutter or the jury to hear. "I can't leave that testimony unchallenged – "

McCoy shook his head "EC 7-7. The authority to make decisions is exclusively that of the client and, if made within the framework of the law, such decisions are binding on the lawyer," His voice was harsh and final. " _No cross_."

Regan swallowed hard against threatening nausea. "No questions for this witness at this time," she told Judge Wright, and saw his eyebrows go up.

As she sat down this time she was sure she saw Cutter staring at her. _He must wonder what I'm up to_ , she thought sickly. _I wish this really_ _ **was**_ _some brilliant legal ploy._

Cutter's next witness was Bill Fitzgerald. Fitzgerald reluctantly testified that McCoy had been very 'affectionate' with Keri Dyson at the _Lord Roberts_ , that he had seemed intoxicated, that they had left together 'walking very close'. Regan thought glumly that Fitzgerald was an excellent witness for the prosecution – obviously unwilling to say anything derogatory about McCoy, but obeying the requirements of the court and his oath, both as witness and as an officer of the court. _The jury will add ten percent to everything he says, on the assumption he's downplaying it_ , Regan thought.

Skimming his deposition while Cutter questioned him, Regan noted a few questions on her pad. She might not be able to undo Cutter's dog-whistle – _Were you surprised to see Mr. McCoy and Ms Dyson leave together? And why not? –_ but she could get in a few good points about how little McCoy had had to drink, how quickly he'd become intoxicated.

As she began to rise to her feet, McCoy turned to her and reached out to lay his right hand flat over her legal pad, covering her notes. "No cross," he said.

Regan paused, looking down at his hand because she thought that if she looked at his face she'd quite possibly punch it. His ring caught the light, the _JJM_ disappearing and reappearing in the late morning sun through the courtroom window. Regan laid both her hands over his. Her grazed knuckles and bruises made her hands look like a laborer's or a farmer's compared to his.

_Well, I'm the brawler_ , she thought. _And I'd fight his battles for him – if he'd let me._

"Jack…" she whispered, caught between nausea and tears.

"No cross," McCoy said coldly, and drew his hand from under hers.

Regan nodded tiredly, and rose to her feet. "No questions for this witness at this time," she told the court.

Judge Wright frowned at her. "The witness is excused," he said. "And you, Ms Markham, approach."

When Regan reached the bench, Cutter close behind, Wright covered the microphone with his hand and said: "What the hell are you playing at?"

"I'm not playing at anything," Regan said. "I'm following the instructions of my client. As required to by the Code of – "

"Yes, yes," Wright said, waving her to silence. "Do you mean that what I thought I overheard is correct? Your client has specifically instructed you to offer no opening statement and no cross-examination?"

"Yes, your honor," Regan said.

Wright's lips tightened. "Goddamn it," he said. "I thought I told you I wouldn't have this trial turned into Jack McCoy's personal circus."

"And I listened, your honor," Regan said. "But … "

"I understand," Wright said grimly. He let go of the microphone. "We'll have the luncheon recess now for an hour. And I'll see prosecution, defense, and _the defendant_ in my chambers. _Right now!_ "

* * *

.oOo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EC 7-13 of the Professional Code of conduct is the part that declares that prosecutors should not avoid pursuing evidence just because it might be exculpatory.
> 
> I am here, and will in the rest of the story, play a little fast-and-loose with the Molineux standard – established in People v. Molineux, 168 N.Y. 264 (1901), the Molineux standard determines the admissibility or otherwise of evidence of acts unrelated to the act charged but which are, or may be considered to be, relevant to the guilt or otherwise of the defendant. It is generally held that evidence of prior acts or character is inadmissible if it goes only to prove that the defendant is the type of person who might be expected to commit the act in question, but admissible to establish motive, opportunity, intent, preparation, common scheme or plan, identity, absence of mistake or accident. There are in a number of jurisdictions, including Federally, exceptions allowing the admissibility of evidence concerning sexual offences.


	22. Judicial Notice

_Judge_ _William Wright's Chambers_

_Supreme Court_

_100 Centre St_

_11.45am Thursday May 10_ _h_ _2007_

 

* * *

 

Judge Wright pulled off his robes, getting briefly tangled and finally jerking himself free just as Regan thought perhaps she should step forward and offer assistance.

He flung them in a bundle onto his desk, glaring at Jack McCoy.

"I will not have an appeal ploy run in my courtroom!" he said.

"That isn't my intention, your honor," McCoy said from where he stood slightly behind Regan, as befitted a defendant. _About the only part of being a defendant he's got right,_ Regan thought sourly.

"It certainly looks that way to me!" Wright snapped.

"I didn't know they handed out psychic powers with the robes these days," McCoy retorted.

"Keep talking, Mr. McCoy, you can see the inside of a jail cell sooner than you might have expected," Wright warned.

"Your honor," Regan said desperately, "Emotions are clearly running a little high, if I might have a moment to talk to my client – "

"Do you have a reasonable expectation of having any more luck talking sense to your client in 'a moment' than you have had in the past week?" Wright demanded.

Regan hesitated. "Not what I would describe as reasonable, your honor," she said, and tried to manufacture a smile. "But where there's life, there's hope."

"No," Wright said shortly. "Now listen to me, Mr. McCoy, Ms Markham, Mr. Cutter – this trial is turning into a farce. Both defense and prosecution want to rush into my courtroom, and when you get here I have a prosecutor whose case is falling apart as he presents it and who hasn't taken even the most rudimentary steps to assure himself of the veracity of his evidence, and a defendant who has tied his counsel's hands behind her back."

Cutter raised his eyebrows, shooting Regan a knowing glance. She glared at him, lip curling in disdain. _Not the time for innuendo, Mr. Cutter_ , her stony stare said as clear as she could make it, and Cutter had the grace to look abashed.

"I am entitled to instruct my attorney as I see fit," McCoy said.

"You're also entitled to competent representation. At the moment, you're on track to securing a conviction for yourself in a case that, quite frankly, shouldn't have gotten past the grand jury, and which is based on evidence that I am beginning to suspect would not have survived a motion _in limine_ drafted by a public defender on her first _traffic court_ trial." Wright took a deep breath.

"Your honor – " McCoy started.

" _I'm not finished_!" Wright roared. "I am going to salvage a trial out of this circus. Mr. Cutter, _prepare_ _your case_. Mr. McCoy, get the hell out of the way of your lawyer. She's doing the best she can –"

"Why don't I save us all some time and change my plea to guilty right now?" McCoy suggested with a grimace that Regan thought he probably intended as a wry smile.

"Why don't you _shut up_ ," Regan said between gritted teeth.

"Excellent advice from your counsel," Wright said. "You should take it. And as to your offer to change your plea, I am not satisfied that a factual basis exists to support the charges to which you'd be pleading. You should have jumped off the cliff earlier, Mr. McCoy."

"My attorney talked me out of it," McCoy said.

"You should listen to her more often," Wright said. "When we come back after lunch, Mr. McCoy, Ms Markham is going to start acting like a defense lawyer. I will not have my courtroom turned into some kind of pro-forma performance. If Ms Markham passes on the cross of one more witness I will declare a mistrial."

"You have no grounds," Cutter and McCoy said in unison, and then shot startled glances at each other.

"Feel free to appeal," Wright said. "Either of you. Both of you. And we can do all this again – as many times as it takes, Mr. McCoy, for you to get a proper defense." He stared at McCoy. "Now get out of here, all of you. When we resume after lunch I expect this trial to be a _trial_."

Without waiting to see McCoy's reaction, Regan turned on her heel and left Wright's chambers. She stumbled out into the corridor, clutching her briefcase, struggling for breath, darkness hazing the edges of her vision.

"It'll be alright, Regan," McCoy said behind her, and she turned. He seemed to be a long way away down a dark corridor, his voice barely audible over the buzzing in her ears, over the sound of _gunfire_ and _screaming._ "You'll just walk through it, there's no way he can rule on whether or not you're – "

Regan held up her hand to stop him, tried to speak and failed. She turned away. _Help me, Ellie, help me, it hurts …_

"Regan!" McCoy said, stepping around her to get in front of her again, hand on her shoulder, face close to hers. "It'll be fine. You just ask a few standard questions and Wright will be satisfied."

Regan's stomach heaved. _Wright wants this trial to be a trial? With a client who won't help himself and a defense attorney who doesn't know enough of what she's doing to help him?_

_Can't_ _save Jack._

_Can't_ _ever save anyone_.

Regan pushed past McCoy hard enough to stagger him and headed down the long dim corridor, trying to ignore the _screaming_.

"Regan," McCoy called as she strode away. She didn't stop.

_Oh god, Ellie,_ _help me, help me, it hurts, oh god it hurts …_

"Regan!" McCoy was following her, sounding angry. "We're not done!"

Regan kept walking, almost breaking into a run. Her gut twisted and she coughed, swallowed bile, clamped her hand over her mouth and shouldered past a couple of lawyers deep in conversation and pushed open the door to the restroom.

"Regan!"

The door closed on McCoy, cutting him off.

_Help me, oh god, help me, El, help me, it hurts, oh god, it hurts!_

Regan stumbled to the sink, dropping her briefcase. Her head was splitting, her face and hands were cold as ice. Her chest ached and she couldn't get her breath, tasting blood in her mouth, and hearing nothing but screaming and screaming _help me help me help_ ….

Clutching the edge of the basin, Regan was barely able to feel the cool porcelain under her fingers as she fought to keep her knees from buckling.

_Help me help me_ _it hurts it hurts help me_ …

She retched violently, the spasms continuing even after her stomach was empty. Gasping for breath, she half-choked, coughed, spat bile into the sink and retched again. _Help me_ , _Ellie, it hurts_ …

_Can't help you_ , she thought groggily, the room spinning around her. _Can't help you. Can't help anyone._

"Regan?" McCoy said.

Regan turned her head to tell him he wasn't supposed to be in the women's restroom, to tell him to _get the hell out_ , to _leave her alone_. Her eyes were watering, blurring her vision and sparing her from having to see his cold disapproval again.

Moving made her dizziness worse and she leaned over the basin again, dry-heaving.

"Need – a minute – " she managed to gasp.

And then McCoy's hand was warm and firm on her forehead, bracing her head, his other arm around her waist, holding her up as her knees threatened to fold.

The buzzing in her ears receded. The screaming faded. Regan found she could breathe. She leaned there, braced between the cold sink and McCoy's warm strength, taking careful little breaths.

"Something you ate?" McCoy asked her after a few moments, his voice gentler than she'd heard it in days, close by her ear.

"Must be," Regan mumbled. "Jack – I've gotta sit down – "

"Here you go." He helped her to the wall and when her knees gave, lowered her to the floor, crouching beside her. "Put your head between your knees."

Regan did as he advised, closing her eyes. The tile floor was cold and hard beneath her, the wall equally chill at her back, McCoy's hand on her shoulder warm. That was all she was capable of comprehending for a moment.

"Excuse me!" said an outraged female voice. "This is the _women's_ restroom!"

"My colleague is unwell," McCoy said tersely. Regan heard cloth rustle. "Make yourself useful – go get a soda from the machine."

Regan opened her eyes enough to see him handing coins to a woman about his own age, whose expression was a mixture of outrage, concern, and bemusement.

"And don't take all day about it,' McCoy advised.

"Jack, I don't think I can drink a soda," Regan said weakly as the other woman departed on her errand, looking as if she wasn't quite sure why she was going.

"That's okay," McCoy said calmly. "It's for me,"

Regan was surprised to find herself giving a snort of laughter.

When the woman returned with the drink, McCoy dismissed her. Expecting the hear the pop of a ring-pull, Regan was surprised to suddenly feel the icy can on the back of her neck.

"Hold still," McCoy said. "Ice is better, but this'll help."

"I thought ice on the neck was for bloody noses," Regan mumbled.

"Old wives' tale," McCoy said. "Bloody nose needs ice on the _nose_. I thought a tough street cop like you would know that."

"Tough street cops _give_ bloody noses, not get them," Regan said. She realized that she was indeed beginning to feel better. The swimming feeling in her head was fading, and she was able to focus on more than her immediate surroundings.

Focus on things like the afternoon ahead of her, instructed by her client to do the absolute minimum that would satisfy the judge, the closest thing to playing dead that she could manage.

_No_.

She couldn't do it.

She thought about getting up off the floor and walking out of the restroom, out of the courthouse. She knew from experience that she could fit everything she really needed into one suitcase. In a couple of hours she could be at the Port Authority, on a bus going somewhere – _anywhere ._ She could vanish, just like last time, walk away from her failure, from what she'd done and what she hadn't, from what she'd become.

_Except last time it_ _was already over._

And last time it had been her partner who'd let her know there was no place for her where she was, not anymore, her partner – the one person she had no choice but to believe.

_And this isn't over._ Regan wanted to go, to run, she had the chance to do it _before_ , this time, _before_ she had one more failure to live with. But, _You gonna walk away when your partner needs you, girl?_ an old man's voice asked her, creaky with age.

_Gotta see it through. Like last time, gotta see it through._

_But this time –_ there'd be no disappearing act, no way to slide out of her life and the lives of everybody who knew who and what she was. _Whether I have a job or not._

This time, they wouldn't be burying the ones she couldn't help.

She knew, the knowledge as cold and solid as the cold can against her neck, that if she lost this case she'd be making the drive to wherever they put McCoy, week after week, signing the visitor's log and passing through the gates, sitting on the other side of the glass and trying to make small talk, trying to bring the world outside in to him, like all the other sisters and girlfriends and mothers and wives and friends.

Because her partner would need her.

_Just like he needs me now._

_And you don't leave your partner alone out_ _there in the dark._

"You're doing fine in there," McCoy said reassuringly. "You can handle this afternoon."

"I'm not _doing fine_ ," Regan snapped, raising her head and dislodging the can from the back of her neck. McCoy caught it and put it against the line of her jaw, against the big vein in her neck. His hand wrapped around the can and his fingers brushed her skin, warm contrast to the cool metal. Regan covered his hand with her own and pulled it away. "I'm doing what you told me to do, and it _isn't fine_."

"I know you aren't happy with my instruction," McCoy said, his voice a little colder, "But that's how it is in private practice. The client gives the instructions. Whatever happens, it's on me, not you."

"You never get the ideal circumstances in a courtroom," Regan said. "Your job is to work with what you have. Sound familiar? You think I can walk away after this and tell myself, oh, well, wasn't my fault, didn't have much to work with? You ever tell yourself that, Jack?"

"This is different," McCoy said, gaze sliding away from hers.

"And you won't tell me why," Regan said bitterly.

"I've told you everything that's relevant," McCoy said. He stood up, looking down at her. "Now all you have to do is go back in there and follow your client's instruction."

Regan looked up at him, and then held out her hand. McCoy grasped it reflexively and she hauled herself to her feet, keeping hold of his hand so they were standing face-to-face and he couldn't turn away.

"I can't," she to him, feeling certainty as cold and reassuring as the can of soft-drink had been. "I can't, Jack – I can't _stomach_ it."

She released him and turned to the basin, running the cold tap and splashing water over her face. Straightening up, she blinked water from her eyes and looked at him in the mirror.

"I'm going to win the case, with your co-operation or without it," she said steadily. "I'm going to go in there and win the case and you're going to sit there and behave."

"Or what?" McCoy said.

Regan grabbed a handful of paper towels and wiped her face. "Or I'll have you removed from the courtroom pending a 730 exam."

"You can't – "

"You don't think Judge Wright would back me?" Regan asked, tossing the towels in the trash.

"A 730 requires a psychiatric hold, it'll be on the record – you want to win the case, you're willing to do it at the cost of any credibility I'll ever have?" McCoy said, taking an angry step toward her. "That's blackmail!"

Regan turned to face him, propping herself against the sink. "Yes it is," she said calmly.

"You cannot possibly justify – " McCoy started, voice rising.

"I'm not much interested in what I can justify at this point," Regan said. "Ask me what I can possibly _get away with_ , that's a more productive question."

"You are so far over the line," McCoy said, taking another step forward, crowding her, glaring down at her angrily. "If you go 730, the next courtroom you see will be the Ethics Committee."

"I'm well aware of it," Regan said. She lifted her chin and poked him hard in the chest. "Didn't you tell me that winning is everything in the courtroom, that justice is the by-product of winning? I'm going to win this case, whatever the consequences to me _or_ to you." Putting her hand flat on his chest, she pushed him back from her, turning toward the door. "Someone once told me that it was important to keep thinking like a lawyer. So I am. Get used it."

"Regan!" McCoy snapped angrily. "I'll call your bluff! You'll be finished – at the DA's Office, at the Bar."

"I know," Regan said. "But Jack – I'm not bluffing. _Never make a threat you're not prepared to carry through_ , you told me, remember?" Hand on the door, she paused. "I'm not like you, Jack. I didn't start out as a lawyer. But you've done your best to make me into one." She gave him one final level glance. "Congratulations on your success."

* * *

.oOo.


	23. Zealous Defense

_Trial Part 3_

_Supreme Court 100 Centre St_

_1 pm Thursday May 10_ _th_ _2007_

 

* * *

 

Jack McCoy folded his hands on the defense table and looked straight ahead. He was acutely aware of the jury's gazes on him and just as conscious of his two colleagues – _soon to be former colleagues_ – at the prosecution table. He could not bring himself to look at any of them, to see what was in their eyes.

Beside him, Regan Markham was reading over her notes. Behind him, Nora Lewin and Danielle Melnick sat side-by-side, ready to offer Regan advice if she needed it.

The trial was sliding out of his control. Oh, it had always been an illusion, that he could control the trial – he was the defendant, and he knew well enough the tricks that the prosecution would use to run the trial the way that suited them, especially in presenting the People's case, but he had at least assumed he would be able to insist Regan follow his instructions, play dead, run silent, get it over with …

Wright had put a stop to that. Party of McCoy's mind was turning over the possibility of an injunction against the judge, for his refusal to accept a plea of guilty, for his interference in the conduct of the defense's case. _But that would be a bigger circus, and a far more public one, that this._

He suppressed a yawn. The few hours sleep he'd managed to get the night before had been broken by confused dreams of courtrooms where Claire Kincaid sat beside his sister and his mother in the jury box, where his father sat in judgment and used the gavel to pound Abbie Carmichael to a bloody mess, dreams from which he woke with his heart pounding and his throat as raw as if he had been screaming.

But simply enduring the trial, sitting impassively while Mike Cutter laid bare the kind of man he'd become, had been even harder than he could have had imagined.

The singleover-riding thought beating in his head had been _Let it end soon_. _Let it end soon._

_Let it end._

Regan had wanted to make an opening statement, to cross-examine witnesses, to press every point of a case she refused to accept was futile.

If he could have explained to her – _no_. The thought of saying those words, of telling Regan, telling Abbie, Danielle … saying _I really am that man. In the end, the man you thought you knew was nothing more than a disguise_ – he had steeled himself to bear Cutter's allegations, he could face a jury verdict, had prepared himself to endure sentencing and prison – but he could not find the courage to say those words out loud. To say _I am, when all is finally said and done, my father's son._

_No._ He had been determined to leave no chance that, even with Danielle and Sally and Serena coaching her, Regan could frustrate what McCoy knew to be justice: a guilty verdict.

Perhaps Regan was right: it was unfair to her, as she had told him over and over again. _But there's not much about any of this that_ _ **is**_ _fair._

_And if she trusted me as much as she's always saying she does, she wouldn't need my explanations._

It had always been easy for him to understand what drove other people – he had won more than one difficult case based on those moments of insight alone. He had sensed the truth of Linda Drosi's utter refusal to consider that her daughter had been honest; he had seen not only why Danielle Mason felt she had no choice but to claim she had been raped but also just which threat would persuade her to tell the truth.

And he had been able to tell how desperately Regan wanted to spring to his defense, to fight for him, just as McCoy himself had not even hesitated before joining Adam Schiff's efforts to overturn the Governor's decision to appoint a Special Prosecutor for the cruise ship shooting trial.

It was easy to be angry with her for pressing the issue, it was easy to give in to his need to argue back, to win –

McCoy looked sideways at Regan as she put down her pen and flexed her fingers, pulling a face at the movement of her bruised and battered hand, now with new marks that McCoy guessed had come from her furious battering at his door the previous day. It was a visible token of her frustration. _Easy for her to be angry, too_ , McCoy thought.

_It's always easy to be angry_.

Until he had pushed open the door of the women's restroom, prepared to berate her for walking away from him, and seen her retching up her guts as her very body rebelled against the idea of letting Cutter's case go through to the catcher. _Pushed past breaking point._

_One more casualty of what I've become. Keri Dyson, Abbie, Regan …_

She'd looked so pitiful, crumpled in on herself with her head on her knees, the woman who had gained the courage to go toe-to-toe with him, who had once put her career in his hands and told him _We all have to trust somebody_ as if it were a complete explanation, shattered by the demands he'd used that trust to make.

And as furious as he'd been with her blackmail, the desperation it had revealed had been more painful.

Regan had told him she was thinking like a lawyer, but the calm face she had turned to him had been all cop: a cop with a gun to his head, whose instructions to raise his hands were not in the slightest bit negotiable. _A 730 exam, of all the high-wire acts – even Danielle Melnick never tried that on a client!_

_Talk about lateral thinking!_

Judge Wright gaveled the court back into session, and Regan rose to her feet. "Your honor," she said, looking not at the judge but down at McCoy, "at this point the defense wishes to recall – "

" _No_ ," McCoy said, keeping his voice low but putting every ounce of _I'm-the-DA-just-_ _ **watch**_ _-me_ into it that he could.

Regan didn't blink – or miss a beat. "Or rather, moves for an immediate – "

" _Regan_ ," McCoy hissed.

She paused, raising her eyebrows, and McCoy had no choice but to give in with a reluctant nod.

"At this point the defense recalls Mr. William Fitzgerald," Regan went on smoothly.

"Are you sure?" Judge Wright asked sarcastically.

"Yes, your honor, quite sure," Regan said serenely, but McCoy could see her hands shaking where they rested on the table.

_And they say_ _ **I**_ _have brass balls,_ McCoy thought. He should be furious with her, and he _was_ – any client had every right to haul a lawyer through every disciplinary mechanism in the _state_ for that kind of stunt –but mingled with that anger was a certain pride. _Ten months_ _ago she_ _was nervously preparing to arraign her first murderer_ , he thought. _Look at her now!_

Her hands might be shaking, but Regan strolled across the well of the court as if it were her own backyard, hands loosely clasped in front of her, coming to a stop by the witness stand as Judge Wright reminded Bill Fitzgerald he was still under oath.

"I just have a couple of questions for you," Regan said gently, "If that's okay, Mr. Fitzgerald?"

"Yeah, sure," Fitzgerald responded, swallowing nervously. Regan gave him a reassuring smile and the young ADA smiled back. _Showing the jury she's not the bad guy_ , McCoy thought. It was a familiar tactic, and one he'd used himself countless times. So familiar was Regan's approach that he almost expected her to rest one hand lightly on the railing of the witness stand the way he himself did, but instead she put her hands in her pockets. _Of course,_ McCoy thought, _she doesn't want the jury to see_ _that counsel for the defense looks like_ _ **she herself**_ _might well have committed the crime in question_.

_Turn toward the jury_ , he willed her. _Include them in the conversation._

"Mr. Fitzgerald, I want to ask you about the evening of May 3, last Thursday," Regan said, shifting her stance so that her shoulder was no longer turned to the jury box, but keeping her attention steadily fixed on Fitzgerald. "You've testified about the time you spent at the Lord Roberts. How did you get to the bar?"

"By cab," Fitzgerald said.

"Alone?" Regan prompted, taking her left hand from her pocket and resting it on the railing of the witness stand.

McCoy had a strange sense of recognition, seeing his own courtroom mannerisms in Regan's stance, her tone, her gestures. _Like a fun-house mirror – identifiable, but distorted._ He couldn't help being reminded of the last time he had sat in a courtroom with his future in the hands of a young assistant, when he had sat in the body of the courtroom, watching Claire Kincaid cross-examine Diana Hawthorne.

The contrast could not have been sharper. Claire had been slender, willowy, her domination of the courtroom the result of her intelligence and personality, not her physical presence. She had had her _own_ style as a lawyer, a style in which McCoy had been able to see traces of Mac Gellar, Ben Stone, and even himself, but a style that was all her own. Juries had trusted her – she had exuded composure, confidence, class. _And her beauty was an asset as far as jury sympathy was concerned, too._

Regan had no such advantages. There were moments when a trick of the light, a change in expression, turned the spare planes and hollows of her face to beauty – but she would never have Claire's loveliness. _Or ever be as classy_. Regan would never be anything but a beat-up ex-cop, working-class made good, nothing like the hot-house rose that had been Claire Kincaid. McCoy wondered if he was the only one in the courtroom who could tell that Regan felt uncomfortable in her business suit, uncertain in front of the jury. _A cop playing dress-up in lawyer's clothes._

_Claire never had any doubt she belonged in a courtroom_. Doubts about the usefulness, the ethics, the politics of prosecutions – she'd had plenty of those. _But never any doubts about herself, not when it came down to the crunch in the courtroom_.

"No, I shared a cab – with you and with Mr. McCoy," Fitzgerald answered Regan's question.

"Was Mr. McCoy drunk?" Regan asked. Her voice was quiet, but her tone uncompromising.

_Claire would have put a little sarcasm into her voice on that question_ , McCoy thought. _Humor gets the jury onside._

He caught himself thinking that Claire would have handled this cross-examination so much better than Regan was – and then remembered that he hadn't wanted the cross-examination to occur at all. _And I can just imagine Claire's response to that!_ he thought.

But imagine was all he could do. A phrase from a book came back to him. _The past is another country._

_And not one you can get a visa for_ , McCoy added.

For a moment the thought grew vivid – a visit to the Embassy of the Past, the stamp on the passport, the queue for the boarding gate with _AA 1994_ flashing over the door, and then disembarking, looking for that one familiar face in the arrivals hall …

Then heimagined the look on her face when she saw him, the silent reproach. McCoy strangled that thought unborn and forced himself to focus on the well of the court, on Regan Markham and her borrowed tactics.

"You know he wasn't drunk," Fitzgerald said firmly.

Regan smiled. "I can't testify, though, Mr. Fitzgerald. Or this would be a very short trial."

Cutter was on his feet "Does counsel have a question?" he asked tersely.

"Do you, Ms Markham?" Judge Wright asked.

"Yes, your honor," Regan said meekly. She turned back to Fitzgerald. "Was there liquor on Mr. McCoy's breath? Was he unsteady on his feet? Slurring his words?"

"No, no, and no. In fact – " Fitzgerald said, and hesitated.

"In fact what?" Regan prompted gently.

"When we were in the cab, you were complaining about a witness you'd both been prepping, and Mr. McCoy said that it had been a hell of a long day, but nothing the first drink of the night wouldn't cure. Taking everything into consideration, I would bet he was stone cold sober when we got to the bar."

"And you testified … " Regan took a few quick steps back to the defense table and picked up a file. McCoy could see that it was in fact the collection of affidavits Serena Southerlyn had gathered, but Regan held it so the jury couldn't see what she was reading. "Here it is," she said, as if she was reading over a transcript of Fitzgerald's testimony. "You testified that Mr. McCoy bought drinks … Mr. Cutter suggested that Mr. McCoy's motives might be inferred from the fact that he bought Ms Dyson a drink. But he bought a drink for you, too, didn't he? Was he trying to get _you_ into bed, Mr. Fitzgerald?"

Fitzgerald blushed, and one of the jurors snickered. "No."

"And you testified that some time after that you were – was it playing the piano?" Regan asked.

"Singing," Fitzgerald said.

"Singing. And you saw Ms Dyson hand Mr. McCoy a drink. Did Mr. McCoy seem intoxicated at _that_ time?" Regan put the file back on the defense table and began to stroll back toward the witness stand.

"No. He seemed fine," Fitzgerald said.

"At around eight o'clock?"

"Yes."

"You sure?" Regan pressed.

"Positive," Fitzgerald said.

"And you testified that when next you caught sight of Mr. McCoy, about fifteen minutes later, he was sitting in a booth with Ms Dyson," Regan said.

"Yes," Fitzgerald said, and blushed again.

"And they were – what was the term you used?"

"They seemed to be getting along," Fitzgerald said, still blushing.

"Behaving indiscreetly," Regan said.

"Yes."

"Were you surprised?"

"Very," Fitzgerald said before Cutter could cut him off.

"Your honor – " Cutter said.

"You opened the door," Regan said quickly. McCoy shot a glance at Cutter and saw the prosecutor frowning, no doubt realizing that the latitude he had taken on direct examination would now be used against him in Regan's cross. _Did he see the risk when he took it?_ McCoy wondered. _He has a reputation for being fond of the high-wire._

McCoy himself had used similar tactics to Cutter's strategy of innuendo when a jury needed to be persuaded to convict on slim evidence. _Juries like to lock up people who deserve it._

_The problem with that approach is that all the defense needs to do is prove that the defendant_ _**doesn't** _ _deserve it._

_I wonder if Cutter guesses how much of an uphill battle that would be for Regan with_ _**this** _ _defendant._

"She's right, Mr. Cutter. You did indeed open the door," Judge Wright said. "So, Ms Markham, proceed on through."

"Thank you, your honor. Why surprised, Mr. Fitzgerald?" Regan asked.

"Because it's a sacking offense," Fitzgerald said. "Because there's always gossip, but I never saw anything to support it. Because it seemed very out of character."

"Out of character," Regan repeated slowly. "Thank you, Mr. Fitzgerald."

She turned and began to walk back to the defense table. McCoy counted her steps, waiting for her to feign sudden recollection of a last-minute question. _One, two, three –_ Regan turned back, as McCoy had known she would.

"One more thing," she asked. "You saw Mr. McCoy leaving, didn't you?"

"Yes."

"Did he seem intoxicated?"

"He had to lean on Keri to stand up," Fitzgerald said, and then looked past Regan to McCoy. "I'm sorry, Mr. McCoy, but it's true. I couldn't believe anyone could get so plastered in half-an-hour."

"You couldn't believe anyone could get _that_ drunk _that_ quickly?" Regan said. "Neither can I."

Cutter bounced to his feet, mouth open to object, but Regan already was back at the defense table. "Nothing further, your honor," she said calmly, sinking into her chair.

Cutter stayed on his feet. "No redirect, your honor," he said.

"Mr. Fitzgerald, thank you for your time," Judge Wright said.

As Fitzgerald made his way from the witness stand to the body of the courtroom, Regan rose to her feet again. "Defense would like at this point to cross-examine Dr Elizabeth Rodgers," she said.

"You've missed that boat," Cutter said immediately. "If you want to call her when you present _your_ case – "

"Approach, you honor?" Regan asked, on her way to the front of the courtroom even before Wright nodded. McCoy couldn't hear what she said to Wright, but the judge nodded with every sentence.

"Step back, counselors," he said. "I'll allow this witness."

Rodgers took the stand with her usual air of cynical impatience, although without the barely concealed disdain with which she usually regarded defense attorneys.

Regan got straight to the point. "You were about to tell the jury something about corresponding marks before Mr. Cutter stopped you?"

"Yes,' Rodgers said. "Based on the injuries indicated in the medical file and shown in the included photographs, it's my opinion that Ms Dyson's assailant would have suffered injuries to the right hand, particularly the knuckle."

"Noticeable injuries?" Regan asked.

"Objection, calls for speculation – " Cutter said.

"As did your questions to this witness," Regan retorted quickly.

Ignoring them both, Rodgers raised her voice so the jury could hear her over the arguing lawyers. "I would expect abrasions, possibly fractures," she said flatly.

"I'll allow the question," Wright ruled, a little behind the play.

"And, Dr Rodgers, did you have occasion to examine Mr. McCoy's hands recently?" Regan asked.

"Yes," Rodgers said. "On Sunday May 6, this Sunday recently past, you and Mr. McCoy attended my office for the purpose of seeking an expert medical examiner's opinion on whether the condition of Mr. McCoy's hands supported the accusation that he had assaulted Keri Dyson."

"And what did you conclude?" Regan asked.

"Well, as you can see from these photos – " Rodgers said, reaching into her attaché case and taking out a large envelope.

"Objection!" Cutter snapped. "Witness is referring to documents not in evidence!"

Regan took the envelope from Rodgers. "Defense One, your honor," she said, lifting the flap and pulling out several large, glossy prints. "As we can see from these photos, doctor?" she said, holding the photos so that the jury could see them.

Rodgers leaned forward to point to the photos as she answered. "There is a complete absence of any bruising or abrasions. In addition, I took a series of X-rays of both Mr. McCoy's hands and found no fractures of any kind."

"Thank you, doctor," Regan said. She handed the photos to the judge's clerk and walked back to her seat as Cutter rose from his.

"Redirect, your honor?" he said. "Dr Rodgers, can you conclusively say that Jack McCoy did not inflict the injuries Keri Dyson suffered?"

"Not conclusively," Rodger was forced to admit.

"Thank you, nothing further."

McCoy realized that Regan was on her feet again. "Re-cross, your honor," she said. "I have the right under – "

"I know you have the right," Wright said. "Get on with it!"

"Dr Rodgers, are you familiar with a drug known as GHB?" Regan asked.

"Gamma-Hydroxybutyric acid," Rodger replied. "Yes, I'm familiar with it."

"Could you describe the effects of Gamma-Hydroxybutyric acid to the jury?"

"It causes relaxation, reduced inhibition, drowsiness. It also causes amnesia. It's sometimes called the date-rape drug."

"Does it take effect quickly?" Regan asked.

"Quite quickly."

"And do the symptoms mimic alcoholic intoxication?"

"In the early stages, yes," Rodgers said.

"Thank you, doctor," Regan said. "I have nothing further, your honor."

"You're excused, doctor," the judge said. He glanced at his watch. "Given the hour, I think we'll adjourn for the day. See you all tomorrow at 9.30."

McCoy looked at his own watch and was surprised to see it was half-past four. He had been so absorbed in watching Regan's cross-examination he hadn't noticed the time passing.

As the jury filed out Regan turned in her chair and leaned toward Danielle Melnick. "How was that?" she asked anxiously.

"Good," Danielle said. "The jury was doubtful, but they listened."

Regan nodded, drooping a little in her chair. "He'll call Dyson tomorrow, you think?"

"It's likely," Danielle said.

Regan glanced toward the front of the courtroom, where the door was closing behind the jury. She shrugged out of her jacket and dropped it onto the table. Her shirt was dark with sweat and she pulled the collar away from her neck.

"It's harder than it looks, isn't it?" McCoy said.

She shot him a sideways grin, and for a moment they might have been sitting at the prosecution table having just tag-teamed a recalcitrant witness. "I could use a drink," she admitted.

"No time for celebrations," Danielle said from behind them, reminding McCoy that he was not – _would never be again_ – on the right side of the aisle. "We've got a lot of work to do tonight."

"You can do it without me," McCoy said abruptly, getting to his feet. "Since my lawyer has clearly decided to run the case without my instructions."

Regan looked up at him without moving, and McCoy thought the expression on her face might be anger. _Had_ to be anger.

Because if it wasn't anger, it was sadness.

And that made no sense at all.

* * *

 

.oOo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Linda Drosi is the mother in "Blaze"; Danielle Mason is the teenage girl in "Good Girl"; the case where Schiff was removed by the governor was in "Terminal"
> 
> L. P. Hartley's 'The Go-Between' begins with "The past is a foreign country; they do things differently there", which is frequently misquoted as "The past is another country".


	24. Winning Tactics

_Office of ADA Mike Cutter_

_6_ _th_ _Floor, One Hogan Place_

_7 pm Thursday May 10_ _th_ _2007_

 

* * *

 

Cutter paced from one side of his office to the other, baseball bat resting on his shoulder.

The day in court had definitely been … unusual.

_Understatement_ , Cutter thought wryly.

Markham had blindsided him with her challenge to the medical report. It was the only piece of forensic evidence the prosecution had, and now not only did he have doubts about the veracity of the report, but the judge did as well. He'd been forced to decide on the spot whether it would be worse to let the report go, immeasurably weakening his case but preventing Markham from introducing evidence that it was falsified, or bring it in and hope for the best.

He'd picked the second option. _Not the first trial I've had to spend flying by the seat of my pants._

His decision not to call Keri Dyson first was now looking like a bad mistake. With an appealing victim, and not much else, he'd decided to use her to _close_ his case rather than open it, leaving the jury with the image of her battered face to distract them from whatever Regan Markham had to say. Now… _If I'd called her today, Markham wouldn't have had enough to convincingly impeach her. Now, even if I call her first thing in the morning, Markham can hammer her on that inconsistent signature._

The only reason the prosecution was as in as good a shape as they were right now was entirely due to Jack McCoy. Cutter had been wary when he'd seen McCoy prevent his lawyer from giving an opening statement. He'd been perplexed when Markham had declined the opportunity to cross-examine his first two witnesses. When McCoy had offered to change his plea to guilty in the judge's chambers …

_Whatever the problems with the hospital chart, whatever the problems with my case, I have a defendant who admits he's guilty. And by god, I'm going to convict the son-of-a-bitch._

"Hey, Mike," Connie said from the door.

Cutter turned, spinning the bat in his hands. "What've got for me, Connie?"

"Keri Dyson will be here in thirty minutes."

"You said that an hour ago," Cutter pointed out.

"Her car broke down. I sent two guys from the Investigator's division down to give her lift," Connie said.

"Okay. What else?"

"Taylor and Crossetti hit Baltimore a couple of hours ago, they're still running witnesses but so far everything Dr Jordan said checks out, one hundred percent."

"Shit!" Cutter's hands clenched on the bat. "Markham's going to get that into evidence!"

"Yes, she is," Connie said. "I still can't find the doorman. Not at work, not at home, I've hammered on his door personally, no luck. But when the jury hears Mr. Rodriguez – "

"The jury won't hear Mr. Rodriguez," Cutter said quickly.

"If we don't put him on the stand, Regan will – "

"Not if she doesn't know about him. And it's Regan now, is it?"

"Yeah, it's Regan, Jack and Mike," Connie said evenly. "And you have to turn over his name."

"Why?"

"It's exculpatory!" Connie said. "EC 7-13 – "

Cutter shook his head. "No it isn't. Rodriguez didn't go up to the apartment, he didn't see anything after he left Dyson and McCoy in the foyer. For all we know, McCoy perked right up in the elevator, and all the rest happened just like Dyson said." He shrugged. "It's not exculpatory – I don't have a duty to disclose. And you can stop chasing the doorman. You've made every effort to locate him, you've exhausted your responsibility."

"I don't think I have," Connie said sharply.

"Don't get up on your high horse, Connie," Cutter warned. "Our job is to get a conviction."

"We represent the people and the interests of the people are served by a fair outcome," Connie said hotly.

"The interests of the people are served by convicting a guilty man," Cutter said.

"And you're so sure he's guilty?"

"He offered to change his plea in chambers," Cutter said.

Connie took a sharp breath, eyes widening in shock. "He _what_?"

"Offered to change his plea," Cutter said. He swung the bat idly. "Judge wouldn't accept it on the basis of lack of factual basis. But whatever shape our case is, we have a defendant who is willing to admit guilt. And I'm going to make sure the jury gets the message. Is there anything else?"

"No," Connie said slowly. "No, nothing."

"Let me know when Dyson gets here," Cutter said.

As the door closed behind Connie, Cutter took another swing with the bat.

_EC 7 -13_ … His lips quirked in an ironic smile. _The responsibility of a public prosecutor is to seek justice, not merely to convict. because: decisions affecting the public interest should be fair to all; the prosecutor should make timely disclosure to the defense of available evidence, known to the prosecutor, that tends to negate the guilt of the accused, mitigate the degree of the offense, or reduce the punishment. Further, a prosecutor should not intentionally avoid pursuit of evidence merely because he or she believes it will damage the prosecutor's case or aid the accused._

_Jack McCoy's run close to the wire on E 7 -13 in his time_ , Cutter thought. _Let him get a taste of his own medicine._

That had been Arthur Branch's instruction to him. _Give the stubborn son-of-a-bitch a taste of his own medicine_.

Cutter smiled. _Happy to oblige._

He went back to his desk and clicked open the link for LawLib, and typed 'judicial discretion to refuse plea' in the search box.

He was still reading when Connie returned to tell him that Keri Dyson had arrived.

Dyson's bruises were just as startling every time Cutter saw her. As she took a seat, he wondered if he had gone easier on her during witness prep because she was so different from the usual range of witnesses he dealt with. _In narcotics, there are no victims. I can't remember the last time I had a tax-paying citizen on the stand – it's just one skell testifying against another skell, out of spite, for a deal, because a conviction will settle a territorial dispute._

Keri Dyson was a colleague, was a young woman in a fragile mental state, wore the evidence of her ordeal clear on her face.

Cutter took a breath and settled himself across from Dyson, Connie in the corner with a legal pad.

"Keri, we had some problems in court today," Cutter said, starting gently. "The defense has found evidence, that we've been able to confirm, that the doctor who signed your chart at the hospital couldn't have possibly treated you."

Dyson blinked. "I don't know what that means," she said.

"I don't know what it means, either," Cutter said. "I need you to sign this release – " he picked up the form he'd already prepared – "so we can get the originals of your records from the hospital and try to work out what's gone wrong here."

Dyson folded her hands together rather than reach out for the form. "I've given you a copy."

"You did," Cutter acknowledged. "But the judge wants the originals examined by an expert."

Dyson shook her head. "I didn't need to even give you the copies," she said.

"But you did, Keri," Connie said, leaning forward. "Which is really the same thing, in terms of privacy, as the originals."

"No it isn't," Dyson said. "You have to give a lot of information when they treat you at the ER. A lot of stuff that isn't relevant. I don't want that in evidence."

"I understand," Cutter said. "But the judge has _ordered_ us to present the original – "

"He can't make that order," Dyson said sharply. "And you know it. He can't make a judicial order against doctor-patient confidentiality."

'What do you have to hide, Keri?" Cutter asked.

"I'm the _victim_ here," Dyson said, her eyes welling with tears. "I'm not going to give up _my_ rights because someone committed a crime against me!"

Cutter tried for a little while longer to persuade her of the importance of her testimony, but she wouldn't change her position. It didn't make him feel any better about putting her on the stand.

"Keri," he said, trying a different tack, "you know, we talked to the cab driver who took you and Jack McCoy to his building. He said that Jack passed out on the drive and had to be carried inside."

Dyson shrugged. "He was drunk. He came around when we got upstairs – and got aggressive with me. Just like I said."

"Okay," Cutter said. "I'm not sure if I'm going to call you tomorrow or not, so make sure you're at the courthouse, okay?"

"Okay," Dyson said. "Anything else?"

There wasn't. Connie walked her out, then came back into Cutter's office.

"Do you believe her?" she asked bluntly.

"Less and less," Cutter said, equally bluntly. "But I have no evidence that would prevent me putting her on the stand."

"How about this," Connie said. "I subpoenaed Jack's phone records. At 9.28 that night, a call was placed from his cell phone to the home number of a Dr Edward Margolis."

"The DA's Office 'in-house' physician," Cutter said, nodding. "Well, so he realized after he hit her how badly he'd hurt her and called for medical help."

"We don't know that," Connie said. "I'll call Margolis and – "

"No," Cutter said.

"But we need to know – Jesus, Mike, what if he can shed some light – "

"I don't want to know what light he can shed," Cutter said sharply. "I'm satisfied that whatever he has to say must be condemnatory, or else McCoy and Markham would have him on the witness list. No. We'll use the call to impeach McCoy if he takes the stand. That's it."

"Mike – "

"Whose side are you on, Connie?" Cutter asked sharply. "You saw McCoy in the courtroom – he doesn't even want to offer a defense. And I told you that he wanted to change his plea in chambers. He's guilty, and he knows it."

"I'm on the People's side," Connie said, but her tone was conciliatory. "I'm sorry, Mike, I don't mean to argue. I just – "

"Yeah," Cutter said. "I know. We don't have much besides outrage."

After Connie left, Cutter picked up his baseball bat and began to pace around the office. _A guilty plea before McCoy knew how weak our case was, that makes sense,_ he thought. _But after? How does that make sense?_

_He knows he's guilty. His conscience is getting to him_.

_Or he's worried about what else we might have._

Cutter swung idly. _Something worse than evidence proving his guilty, because he's prepared to admit his guilt._

_But it must be something that I could_ _**get** _ _admitted as proof of guilt, because otherwise, he wouldn't be afraid of it coming into court._

_Prior bad act?_ Cutter frowned, resting the bat over his shoulders. _Dyson's allegation is that McCoy assaulted her when she refused his sexual advances. I_ _ **could**_ _argue for admission of prior acts under exception 704_.

He set the bat down against the wall and dropped into his desk chair, picking up his phone and dialing an extension. "Colleen," he said. "Can you send Jack McCoy's personnel file down to me, please?"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Cutter," Colleen Petraky said, not sounding the slightest bit sorry, "you're not authorized to view files outside the Narcotics Bureau."

"Who is authorized to view that file?" Cutter asked.

"Office protocols are clear, only supervisors can view staff files," Colleen said.

"So McCoy can view my file but I can't see his?"

"That's about the size of it, Mr. Cutter," Colleen said.

"Is Arthur in?" Cutter asked.

"He's gone for the evening," Colleen said.

"Okay, then, can I leave word for him to call me first thing in the morning?"

"Of course, Mr. Cutter," Colleen said.

Cutter hung up and shook the mouse on his computer to wake the machine. He clicked open the web browser.

_When in doubt, start with Google._

 

* * *

 

.oOo.


	25. Case Histories

_Abbie Carmichael's Townhouse_

_9 pm Thursday May 10_ _th_ _2007_

* * *

Regan leaned back in her chair, trying to listen to Danielle and Sally, barely able to focus her eyes, let alone her attention. Nora and Serena were both listening intently as the two defense attorneys ran through everything they had managed to find out about Keri Dyson.

She felt as tired as if she'd run two marathons back-to-back. _After all those trials sitting as second chair for Jack McCoy I thought I knew what it was about._

_Boy, was I wrong!_

The tide of adrenaline had carried her through the afternoon, until the moment she had seen the door close behind the jury. Then fatigue had washed over her, bone-deep exhaustion that had made her want to lie down on the floor of the courtroom and sleep for a week. For a moment, Regan had thought that even getting to her feet and walking out of the courthouse would be beyond her.

Catching McCoy's gaze, she had seen a wry amusement in his eyes, as if nothing had changed between them, as if they were still McCoy and Markham, top of the Tenth Floor league.

The illusion could only last a second.

_Because_ _**everything** _ _has changed._

And she had known that it would before she had gotten to her feet in the restroom and laid down –

A tired smile quirked her lips. _Almost thought 'laid down the law'._

What she had laid down had been the opposite of the law. McCoy was right, it was more than enough to haul her in front of the Ethic Committee and have her disbarred.

She'd accused him of being a sore loser, once. _Only when I lose_ , McCoy had snapped.

_Well, he lost today_.

_And Jack McCoy can't stand losing._

Not in court, not an argument, and certainly not control of the situation.

Regan had not been under any illusions that there would be no consequences. She had had no doubts what she was risking.

_But when your partner needs you, what you want or how you feel doesn't matter._

_Even what you need._

_Doesn't matter._

"Regan!" Sally said sharply, and Regan realized that the other woman had been trying to get her attention for some time.

"Sorry," she said hastily. "Woolgathering."

"You have to focus here," Sally said.

"I know," Regan said, and stifled a yawn. "I need more coffee. Anyone else?"

Both Danielle and Serena nodded. Regan pushed herself to her feet and wandered out to the kitchen. She ran cold water and splashed it over her face before filling three mugs and taking them back to the dining room.

Not wanting to admit how far she had zoned out, Regan picked up Rey Curtis's report after she set down the coffee mugs and started reading, listening with half an ear to Sally's run-down of Keri's biggest prosecutions.

_Manhattan District Attorney's Office, Identity Fraud, ADA November 2005 – present_ , Regan read.

_Manhattan District Attorney's Office, Appeals, ADA, August 2004 – November 2005_. That would have been her entry level position – most ADAs started in Appeals or Trials. _Long time to stay in Appeals, though_.

Regan looked back to Keri Dyson's position in the Identity Fraud Bureau. _She jumped three pay-grades when she got that transfer out of Appeals._ _Must have written some solid briefs._

_Norris, Wiesbrot and Norrell, Corporate Law, Attorney 2002-2004_. That was a good firm, but not one that gave a lot of junior lawyers to the DA's Office. _Decent pay for paper-pushing_ , Regan thought . _Not trial work._

_Bentley and Grafton, Attorney 2000-2002_. A much smaller firm, mainly suburban practice.

_George Whifley Esq, Attorney at Law, Junior Attorney 1999-2000_. Wills and probate, a sole practice, barely keeping afloat.

Regan flipped to Dyson's law school transcripts, paused, and flipped back.

"Sally," she said, interrupting the other women, "How did Keri do in Appeals?"

"Didn't make a mark," Sally said. "Good _or_ bad. Why?"

"Because …" Regan said, and then paused, marshalling her thoughts. "Look, she started out as a junior to a sole practitioner. Then after a year she moved to Bentley and Grafton, with a title bump and probably a salary increase to go with it. Then, two years later, she's at N.W.N. – with no experience in corporate law, and bare passing grades in Corporate at Hudson. Then from there she steps into the DA's Office, and I don't think there was anybody in my intake who wasn't either straight out of law school or out of a trial firm. How did Keri make the cut?"

"When I was there," Nora said, "We hired a couple of attorneys who had been working a while but didn't have any courtroom time. One who'd gone straight from law school to being a legislative aide to Nettie Mayersohn, and wanted to help us make the best use of the Victim Impact laws, another who'd wanted to join us after graduate school but had to take a job with regular hours when her mother got sick." She frowned thoughtfully, pursing her lips. "Neither of those files would have ended up on my desk if the two of them hadn't had rabbis."

"So did Keri have a rabbi?" Regan asked. "Because her transcripts aren't a lot better than mine and _I_ needed help getting my foot in the door. Who was pushing on Keri's behalf, and why?"

Danielle nodded. "Okay, something to think about."

"Well, add this," Regan said. "After being stuck in Appeals for more than a year – according to Sally, without leaving any impression – she then jumps three pay-grades into Identity Fraud." Regan closed the file and looked at Sally, then at Danielle. "I can't help being reminded that when she walked into Jack' s office last week, it was with that medical report and an offer to hold back on charges if he got her a transfer into Narcotics. And I can't help wondering if that was the _first_ time she ever made that kind of offer."

She held up the copy of the medical report Keri Dyson had brought to McCoy's office the previous Friday. "Jordan says there's no way he signed this last week. And the experts say it's his signature. What if they're both right? What if it isn't the signature that's forged, but the _date_?"

"We need to talk to everyone who hired her," Danielle said.

"And whoever got her file onto Arthur Branch's desk," Nora said.

"Put Curtis on getting current details," Serena said. "It's better if I – or one of you – make the contact. Lawyer to lawyer."

"You do it," Danielle said. "You used to be a prosecutor. And these guys – if Regan's right – "

"Victims of an unreported crime," Serena said, nodding. She picked up the file of Keri Dyson's work history. "I'll call Curtis now," she said, and headed for the kitchen with her cell phone.

"If we operate on the assumption that the original chart _was_ signed by Jordan and _was_ at Mercy," Sally said, "We can narrow it down to the years he worked there. I wonder if there's a police complaint to go with that black eye?"

"Dr Jordan told Serena he's been in Baltimore for four years," Danielle said.

"Okay, so prior to 2003," Sally said. "Do you have anyone you can reach out to in the DA's Office, Regan?"

"Who'd risk their career to go through old complaints files for Arthur Branch's two least favorite people?" Regan asked. "No."

"Who's taking lead on Dyson?" Danielle asked.

"Tracey Kibre," Regan said. "Do you know her?"

"She's kicked my ass on occasion," Danielle said with a wry laugh. "I'll give her a call in the morning and let her know that her defendant might have a history of prior bad acts that come under _Molineux_. If there's anything to find, Kibre will find it."

"In time?" Sally asked.

"She's no fool," Danielle said. "If Jack's convicted then it will be almost impossible for her to get the jury to say Keri Dyson's guilty. Her only chance of winning _her_ trial is for Cutter to _lose_ his."

"I'll call her," Nora said. "She and I – I wouldn't say we're _friends_ , because Tracey doesn't have friends, but I can call her."

Regan nodded. "I wish we had more," she said glumly.

"We have more than we had this morning," Sally said. "This time tomorrow we'll have more still."

"What if Cutter puts Dyson on the stand tomorrow?" Regan asked.

"Press her on the medical report," Danielle said. "And listen carefully to Cutter on direct – you can't start pressing her on her history unless he opens the door for you."

"He won't," Regan said. "I was lucky today. If he had more actual evidence he would never have pressed on character – and I would never have been able to – "

"But he doesn't, and he did, and _you_ did," Sally said firmly. "Trials give you enough to worry about without fretting over what could have gone wrong, but didn't."

"How _did_ you get Jack to let you cross those witnesses, anyway?" Danielle asked, curious. "He was meek as a new-shorn lamb after the lunch break."

Regan snorted at the mental image of Jack McCoy as _any_ kind of lamb. "I threatened him," she said. "With a competency exam."

"You told him you'd call a 730 on him?" Sally asked with a gust of laughter that was half-disbelieving, half-appalled.

"What did Jack say to that?" Danielle asked.

"He made it pretty clear that the Ethics Committee is in my near future," Regan said, not meeting Danielle's gaze.

"Jesus, Regan, they'll suspend you!" Sally said. "You could even get disbarred!"

"I know," Regan said, and shrugged, gaze fixed on the papers in front of her. "But if I win, it'll be worth it. And if I lose – it won't matter."

"Regan– " Sally started.

"Sally, why don't you see how Serena's doing?" Danielle said.

When Sally had left the room, Danielle leaned forward and put her hand over Regan's. "You're in pretty deep, aren't you?" she said softly.

Regan pulled her hand free. "I don't know what you mean by that," she said stiffly.

"Yes you do," Danielle said steadily. "Regan. Look at me."

Reluctantly, Regan met the other woman's gaze, then looked away from the keen perception she saw there.

"Whatever happens in the courtroom," Danielle said, "You need to think about what's going to happen to _you_. Win, lose, or draw."

"I can't afford to do that right now," Regan said. "I have to think about winning. I _have_ to win. That's it. That's all."

"I don't know what's between you and Jack – " Danielle said.

"Nothing," Regan said quickly. "He's been a good friend to me. When I needed a friend. That's all."

"He's not a man who forgives," Danielle said. "What he sees as betrayal – he's not a man who forgives."

"I know," Regan whispered. "I _do_ know, Danielle."

"Are you willing to keep him out of jail at the cost of losing your – _friendship_?" Danielle said. "Not to mention your job, your license, your career?"

Regan took a breath, and met Danielle's unwavering gaze. "All of that," she said steadily. "And more."

This time it was Danielle who looked away. "Well," she said, with a little laugh, "god send us all such friends, eh?"

* * *

.oOo.


	26. One Of A Kind

_Abbie Carmichael's Townhouse_

_7am Friday May 11_ _th_ _2007_

* * *

_God send us all such friends_.

The words echoed in Regan's head when she woke the next morning in a sweaty tangle of sheets, fragments of a fading nightmare about One Hogan Place and _screaming_ clinging persistently to the edge of her mind.

She rolled over and looked at the clock. _Five am_. She felt as if she'd barely slept. Danielle had sent her to bed at midnight, reminding her that she needed to be sharp for court. Swinging her feet to the floor, Regan rubbed gritty eyes and yawned. _So much for that idea._

A shower and coffee restored her a little. She sat down at Abbie's dining room table, now covered with files and notes, and tried to concentrate on the day ahead, a day that would probably bring Keri Dyson's testimony. _And, please God, will bring something conclusive and damning_ _ **about**_ _Keri Dyson from Rey Curtis and Serena Southerlyn._

A sudden cold thought seized her, recollection of McCoy's abrupt exit from the courtroom yesterday. _He's not a man who forgives_. What if McCoy turned up at the courthouse today prepared to dismiss his lawyer?

_He has every legal right to do it_.

And she'd given him enough provocation.

Panic seized her. Barely pausing to push the notes she'd need for the day into her briefcase, she grabbed her jacket and hurried out into the street, hailing the first cab she saw and giving the cabbie McCoy's address.

Outside his door, she rang the bell and waited. As she was about to ring it again she heard the lock snib back and the door opened.

_He clearly slept as badly as I did_ , Regan thought when she saw McCoy. Early as it was, he was up and dressed except for his suit jacket and tie. He looked at her silently.

"Can I come in?" she asked as the uncomfortable silence stretched.

Still unspeaking, McCoy stepped back to let her through the door.

As he closed it behind her Regan looked around. The apartment was far neater than it had been on Sunday. The piles of books and papers that had littered the living room were gone, and a pile of boxes was stacked against the wall. Regan took a step toward them, reading the notations scrawled on their sides in McCoy's handwriting. _Law Journals – 2004_ was written on one, _Cybercrime_ on another.

_He's packing_ , she realized.

Not packing to move.

_Packing so everything can be stored while he's in jail._

The realization hurt, a little twisting pain in her chest that made it hard to breathe. _Oh, Jack_. She could imagine him working late into the night, filling boxes with all the accoutrements of his career, his _life_ , alone in his apartment with his fear of the future and a face-down picture of Claire Kincaid. _Oh, Jack._

"What do you want?" McCoy asked harshly behind her, and Regan turned to see him regarding her with an unreadable expression.

"To talk to you about today," she said. "Cutter's likely to call Dyson this morning. I want to make sure you understand I'm going to go hard on cross."

"You made that clear yesterday," McCoy said. He rubbed his hand over his face. "You want coffee?" he asked abruptly.

"Yeah," Regan said, surprised at the hospitality. He turned without another word and went to the kitchen.

Regan took a few steps further into the living room. She ran her fingers over the shelves of the bookcase, mostly empty now, and picked up the framed photograph that still lay there, face down.

_That nice young woman, Claire Kincaid_ , Mrs. Farr had called her, and said _I hear him, sometimes. Walking around that apartment at three in the morning._

_Rescuing the suffering outlaw only pans out in the movies_ …

Regan looked down at Claire Kincaid's laughing face. _**You**_ _would have rescued him,_ she thought. _If you'd had enough time._

_If you'd been here none of this would have happened. Jack wouldn't have been drinking with Keri. Even if Keri_ _**had** _ _slipped him a mickey, you would never have let him leave with her. And even if he had, you would never have let him persuade you to file the charges. You would never have let him believe he was guilty. You would never –_

No, Claire Kincaid would never have made any of the mistakes Regan had made.

_Sorry,_ she thought. _I've let him down all along the way. I've screwed this up, big-time. Sorry._

She couldn't see accusation in Claire's eyes – but she couldn't see forgiveness either.

_It's a damn photograph, girl!_ her Gran-Da's scratchy voice said. _You losing your mind?_

_Yeah, Gran-Da. For example, old dead lawmen are talking to me_ , Regan thought.

Hearing McCoy in the hall, she put the photograph back as it had been and turned away from the bookcase.

"What are you going to do with these?" she asked McCoy, indicating the boxes.

He shrugged, careful not to spill the coffee, and handed one mug to her. "I'm sure they'll be useful to someone," he said.

Regan looked back at the bookcase, noticing a couple of novels still left on the shelves beside a photo album. "And this stuff?"

"Lisbeth – my sister – can store a few things for me," McCoy said. He sipped his coffee. "I'm not sure what to do with the bike. My nephew would love it – but Lisbeth wouldn't."

Regan opened her mouth to tell him about Keri Dyson's work history and her speculation about it, then paused, remembering how angrily dismissive he had been of her idea about GHB. What had he said to Serena? _The last argument of a desperate and incompetent lawyer – my client was framed._

She was just too tired for an argument she could put off for a little while longer, too tired to break the fragile and tentative truce between them.

_It might come to nothing_ , she rationalized. _I shouldn't get his hopes up, when it might come to nothing._

McCoy cleared his throat, interrupting Regan's thoughts. "I've been meaning to ask you," he said. "Can I have my keys back?"

Regan blinked. _Keys_. She'd had them since she'd stayed here, that cold January weekend McCoy had discovered just how shabby her accommodation was. He hadn't asked for them back, and Regan hadn't offered, even after Branch's warning had made it clear that there could be nothing more between Regan and McCoy than professional camaraderie. Returning the keys would say – Regan hadn't let herself think about _what_ returning the keys would say, and why she wasn't willing to say it.

She didn't think about it now as she fished the keys out of her pocket. "Here," she said past the irrational lump in her throat.

"The landlord will need all three sets," McCoy explained, not moving to take the keys from her hand.

"You're really planning for me to lose, aren't you?" Regan said. She set the keys on the bookshelf, beside the photo album.

"I'm looking at the evidence," McCoy said. "You've got to learn to do that, Regan, look at the evidence, not look for what you _wish_ was there."

Regan nodded, not trusting her voice, and turned away so he couldn't see her face. Looking for a distraction, she took the photo album off the shelf and opened it, looking for the picture she remembered, Jack McCoy aged three, with a shock of hair and a cheeky grin.

The album fell open at a picture of a big man in a police uniform a few decades out-of-date, broad-shouldered, feet planted firmly on the ground as if to keep the earth subdued, one huge hand enveloping the shoulder of the skinny boy at his side, a boy whose young face already showed traces of Jack McCoy's distinctive features. _Father and son_ , Regan thought, for the way they stood together made the relationship clear, even though she couldn't see any resemblance in their faces. She peered more closely at the photograph, looking for some trace of the adult Jack McCoy she knew in his father. _Nothing_. She looked again at the boy dwarfed by his father. _If the child is father to the man_ , she thought, _then the boy in this picture is where the man I know comes from._ He didn't look like the kind of boy who'd grow up to be a tough alpha lawyer, the DA's junk-yard dog, as he stared solemnly at the camera. _He looks …_

_He looks as if he has a black eye_.

She looked again at the way they stood, father and son, the way the man's big hand held his son's shoulder, the way the son stood straight and braced and tense.

Regan turned a page, turned another. She saw a picture of a woman who must be Jack McCoy's mother, face turned away from the camera in an attempt to hide the healing scab of a split lip, turned the page and saw a teenage Jack McCoy with a cast on his wrist.

"Do we really have time for you to be looking at old photographs?" McCoy asked testily.

Regan turned to look at him, the album still open in her hands, and wondered if she had really heard the edge of anxiety in his voice or just imagined it. "Maybe I need to _make_ the time," she said. Turning another page brought her to a picture of Jack McCoy as a graduating senior, smiling for the camera despite a bruised and swollen lip.

What had he said to her in the car on the way home from Carthage? At the time Regan had been preoccupied with her struggle with her own history, but McCoy's words came back to her now with a keener edge. _These terrible old men who shape our lives. Men we can't live up to, can't live down. You didn't turn into him? Maybe you're stronger than he was._

She shut the album. "Maybe we both need to take a trip down memory lane," she said evenly.

McCoy shook his head but Regan didn't give him a chance to speak.

"I've been racking my brains, trying to work out why you're so set on getting in the way of your own defense," she said, keeping her voice calm and steady. She held the album out to him. "And this is why, isn't it?"

"They're just old photographs," McCoy snapped. "And they're none of your business."

"Old photographs of things that you wouldn't think could stay a secret," Regan said, remembering his words to her the previous Sunday, his sudden anger. "But that did, right, Jack? For how long?"

"Forever," McCoy said. He met her gaze, looking defiant, looking defeated. "I'm not going to talk about this, Regan. I _never_ talk about this."

_The child is father to the man_. Jack 'Hang 'em High' McCoy, brilliant, demanding, intemperate, passionate in the pursuit of justice – and an eight year old boy who had to steel himself to stand next to his father.

_A boy who saw his mother beaten._

_These terrible old men we can't live down…_

_Her story stacks up_ , McCoy had said, not meeting her eyes.

It all made sense, at last, in a way too painful not to be true. _Oh, Jack_.

_Guilt is like water_ , Skoda had said. _It finds the lowest level_.

_And when it gets too deep, you can drown._

Regan laid the album back on the shelf, beside the face-down picture of Claire Kincaid.

Claire Kincaid, who would have known what to say to McCoy right at this moment, who would have had the right to say it, because she loved him and he loved her, because she was _amazing_ , and _astonishing_.

_Oh, Jack_.

"I understand," Regan said quietly. She turned back to face him, knowing then with a certainty beyond her best denial, that what was between them would never be only professional, not for her.

_You're in pretty deep, aren't you?_ Danielle's words, but an old man's scratchy voice. _Over your head, girl._

_Did you ever learn to swim?_

_Too late to ask_ _**that** _ _question, Gran-Da._

"I understand," Regan said again. "You're not going to talk about it. So listen. My father was a drunk with a gambling problem, and I can put twenty dollars and a shot of scotch on the table for a poker game and walk away when they're both gone. Not everything comes down through the generations."

"Thanks for your homespun wisdom," McCoy said acerbically.

Regan paused. "Are we going to be like this, now?" she asked softly. "Because of yesterday? Is this what we're going to be like?"

"What did you expect?" McCoy demanded. "An attagirl?"

"No, I guess this is just about exactly what I expected," Regan said, trying to smile, trying to sound as if she didn't care.

She realized she had failed at both when McCoy sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. "Look," he said, his tone more conciliatory, "I know what it's like to want to win. I know how easy it is to go too far. You got carried away. Let's leave it at that."

Tempting as it was to nod and agree, Regan said: "No. We can't leave it at that. Because I'm going to go as hard today as yesterday, I'm going to do everything legally permissible to get you acquitted. I didn't get 'carried away'. I made a decision – a decision to stop letting you hang yourself."

"You have to understand – " McCoy said angrily.

Regan cut him off. "I _understand_ that every piece of hard evidence I have points to you being framed. I _understand_ that Keri Dyson's plan was not to lay charges but to blackmail you for a promotion. And I _understand_ that you are _**not**_ your father." McCoy opened his mouth, scowling, and Regan cut him off. "And maybe _you_ should understand that you aren't the only person in the gun here."

McCoy drew breath for an angry reply, and then let it out on a sigh.

"I shouldn't have got you involved in this," he said, sinking down onto the couch. "I didn't think – I didn't think about what it would mean, for you. Just – when I saw that file, when I saw Keri's face, I couldn't think who – except for you. That I could rely on you. That I could trust you."

"You _can_ trust me," Regan said, sitting beside him.

"Just not to do as you're told," McCoy said with an attempt at a smile.

"Not when you're telling me to do something stupid," Regan said.

"I'm sorry," McCoy said. "For getting you involved. For putting you – for all of it. All of it."

"Jack, it's okay," Regan said. "You remember, I told you – I'll find a way to meet the cost of any check you need to write." She laid her hand over his. "It's going to be okay. We're going to win."

"I'm not used to having quite so much at _risk_ in the courtroom," McCoy said with a wry smile. "The last time was when Claire was trying to clear my name by nailing Diana Hawthorne for concealing exculpatory evidence."

"I bet she did just great," Regan said.

"She was pretty good," McCoy said, smiling at the memory.

"I'll try to be as good," Regan said.

"Oh, Claire was one of a kind," McCoy said offhandedly, getting to his feet. He held out his hand for Regan's mug, and she gave it to him. "Never knew anyone like her, before or since."

As he took the mugs into the kitchen, Regan pushed herself to her feet and once more picked up the photograph of Claire Kincaid. _One of a kind_.

"We should get going," McCoy said from the hall. Regan turned to see him with his jacket on, tying his tie as he spoke.

"Do you want me to put this back for you?" Regan asked, holding the picture up.

"No," McCoy said shortly. "Leave it."

Regan looked down at Claire Kincaid _, one of a kind, astonishing, amazing._ "If you tell me why," she said softly.

"I don't have to explain myself to – " McCoy started to say, taking an angry step toward her.

"You don't have to," Regan interrupted. "But I'm asking you to."

He stopped, and shook his head wordlessly. Regan waited, the photo in her hands.

"I could always tell when she was disappointed in me," McCoy said at last. "She used to look at me with this – this _accusation_ in her eyes. She never had to say a word. And I can't – I can't look at her accusing me. This – I read Keri Dyson's affidavit too, Regan. It happened – just there, in the hall. I can just imagine what she'd have thought, seeing it. Leave the picture where it was."

"I can't see any accusation, Jack," Regan said, pretending to study the picture. "Whatever happened in the hall, it wasn't what Keri said. I know that. And so does _she_." She held the photograph up for him to look at. "If she's disappointed at anything, it's at you letting yourself get spun around and twisted up by this."

"She doesn't know anything," McCoy said softly. "She's dead. It's just a photo."

Regan thought for a moment she'd bet higher than her cards could justify but she hadn't played years of squad room poker for nothing. She looked him dead in the eye.

"Then put it back on the wall."

He drew a breath, anger flashing in his eyes, and Regan braced herself for a sharp retort. Then, to her surprise, he let the air out of his lungs gently, took the photo from her hands, and hung it back in its place on the wall.

As Regan steered him out of the apartment, she glanced back at Claire Kincaid, restored to pride of place. _Maybe I can't look after him as well as you would have_ , she thought, _I'm not as good a lawyer, I'm not one-of-a-kind, and nobody's ever been astonished or amazed by_ _ **me**_ **.**

_But I'll do my best, anyway._

_I'm not you, Claire, and I can't pretend to be. But I'll do the best that_ _**I** _ _can._

* * *

 

.oOo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> McCoy's line about being a sore loser was originally in episode "Jeopardy".


	27. Evidence

_Serena Southerlyn's House_

_8 am Friday May 11_ _th_ _2007_

* * *

"I'm late," Megan Wheeler said, sliding off her stool and cramming the last of her toast into her mouth. "Gotta go." She planted a quick kiss on Serena's cheek and headed for the door.

Serena heard her open the front door, then a man's voice.

"Is this Ms Southerlyn's house? I'm Rey Curtis, she's expecting me – "

"Yeah, she's in the kitchen," Megan said. "On the left. I'd take you through, but I'm late."

"No problem," Curtis said.

Serena heard the front door close, and she started toward the hall. She and Curtis nearly collided in the doorway.

"Ms Southerlyn?" he said.

"Please, call me Serena," she said, holding out her hand. Curtis took it, his grasp firm but not crushing. "Do you want coffee?"

"Thank you, I'd appreciate it," Curtis said.

Serena poured them both mugs full, taking the opportunity to study Rey Curtis. Regan Markham had described him as a "long tall cup of chocolaty goodness" and Serena could see why. Regan had also said that he came with Lennie Briscoe's recommendation, which meant he had been good at his job when he was a police detective. _And reliable and trustworthy._

She put the mugs on the kitchen island along with milk and sugar.

"Your roommate is on the job?" Curtis asked, adding sugar to his coffee.

"My who?" Serena asked.

"The redhead. She's on the job, right? I saw her badge." Curtis sipped his coffee, watching her over the rim of his mug. _Weighing me up just as much as I'm weighing him._

"Oh, Megan," Serena said. "She's not my roommate. She's my girlfriend."

"Your – girlfriend," Curtis said.

"Partner," Serena said, holding his gaze. "Lover. Girlfriend."

"Okay," Curtis said noncommittally.

"Is that a problem for you?" Serena challenged.

"Not at all," Curtis said. "What people do in their own homes is none of my business."

Serena gave a little mental sigh, but she stopped herself giving Rey Curtis a short sharp lecture on the difference between 'tolerance' and 'acceptance'. _We have work to do_.

"I'll call Nora," she said instead. "See if she's made that call to Tracey Kibre yet."

Nora had. Tracey had gone down to the Complaints Room herself and searched the old files. "And there _was_ a complaint, June 2000, against one Harold Grafton, but Keri dropped the charges two days later."

"Harold Grafton of Bentley and Grafton?" Serena asked.

"I think that's a reasonable assumption," Nora said.

"Did you find out who her rabbi was?" Serena asked.

"Thomas Fellows, senior ADA in Trial Bureau, recommended her to Arthur Branch," Nora said.

"I'll talk to him," Serena said.

"And to Nick Cherry, he runs Identity Fraud now, he gave her that promotion when he brought her into his bureau," Nora said.

"Rey Curtis has the contact details for her other hires," Serena said, looking at Curtis as she spoke. He nodded. "I'll talk to all of them."

She hung up and turned to Curtis. "Regan Markham said you were going to reach out to somebody at Mercy and try and get to the bottom of this forged report?"

"There's a lady who works in Records there who's done me the occasional favor," Curtis said. "I arrested her husband back in the day."

"And she does you favors?" Serena asked.

"I arrested him for beating on her and her kids," Curtis said with a smile. "She's been off a couple of days with the 'flu but she should be back today."

"Then let's go talk to her," Serena said.

Rey Curtis's contact in the Records section of Mercy General was a middle-aged Hispanic woman with short, curly hair streaked with grey. Her face lit up when Curtis came through the door.

"Detective Curtis!" she said with delight.

"Anna, I've told you, I'm not a detective any more. When are you going to start calling me Rey?"

"I don't want to make the other women here jealous, being on first name terms with such a handsome man," the woman said.

Curtis chuckled. "Anna, this is a friend of mine, Serena Southerlyn. Serena, this is Anna Milgano."

"I'm pleased to meet you," Serena said.

"Anna, Serena and I are working together on a case," Curtis said. "We're trying to find out the truth about something, and I hope that maybe you can help us."

"The truth about what?" Anna asked.

"About whether a woman was treated at this hospital," Curtis said.

Anna frowned. "Detective Curtis, you know patient records are confidential."

Serena took the copy of Keri Dyson's medical file out of her briefcase and laid it on the counter. "Ms Milgano," she said, "This woman, Keri Dyson, has alleged that she was assaulted last Thursday. She's charged a senior prosecutor with the District Attorney's Office. He's on trial right now, and if he's found guilty he won't just go to jail. He'll lose his job, his bar license – his whole life. This file is her evidence that she was attacked – and we _know_ it's a forgery. I'm not asking you to tell us anything about her, about her treatment. We just need to know if the original of this copy is in your files in June 2000."

Anna looked at the file, hesitating, and Serena opened it to the hospital chart. "Signed by Dr Rob Jordan," she said. "Who hasn't worked at this hospital for years."

"I'm not allowed to tell you anything," Anna said.

"I know," Curtis said. "But it would really help us if we could find out if there is an original file, that this is a copy of. This woman laid police charges for assault in June 2000. We think that maybe she used the medical records from back then to make a copy and change the date. It would really help us, Anna."

Anna Milgano hesitated again, and then turned away from the counter without saying anything. Serena felt her shoulders sag in disappointment. She opened her mouth to make another plea, and Rey Curtis put his hand on her arm.

"Wait," he said softly.

Anna went to the bank of filing cabinets that covered the back wall of the room, running her fingers down the drawers until she reached one marked _May-June 2000_. She opened the drawer and leafed through the files, taking one out and opening it.

Serena held her breath as the woman studied the file.

Turning back to the counter, the file still in her hands, the Anna said: "I'm sorry, but you know, there's just no way I can disclose information about patients." She put the file down, open, on her desk. "I'm parched," she said. "I'm going to go out and get a drink of water from the fountain in the hall. I'll probably be about five minutes."

Serena and Curtis watched her walk out of the room.

"Hold the door," Curtis said, and Serena hurried to stand against the door, hand on the knob, to slow down anyone coming in. Curtis reached over the counter and grabbed the file from Anna's desk, pulling a camera out of his pocket with his other hand. "Bingo," he said with quiet satisfaction, quickly taking pictures of each page, and then putting the file back where it had been. He picked up their copy of Dyson's forged file as Serena stepped back from the door.

They passed Anna Milgano in the hall. She gave them a quick sideways glance, but didn't say a word.

Serena contained her curiosity until they were outside the hospital and back in Curtis's car.

"What did the file show?" she demanded.

Curtis took the camera back out of his pocket and set it to 'review'. "It's the same file," he said with quiet satisfaction. "Look – it's identical in every detail – except for the date."

Serena compared the images on the digital camera to the file for herself, seeing that Curtis was right.

"We've got to get this to the courthouse," she said.

"I'm not a lawyer," Curtis said, "But I spent enough time in courtrooms to know that's not going to be admissible as evidence of _anything_."

Serena nodded. "But if Regan knows about it, she can try and trip Keri Dyson on the stand – "

"Then ring and tell her," Curtis said. "But most of the lawyers I ever worked with were only happy to _see_ you when you had something they could show a jury. So while you phone, I'll drive."

"To where?" Serena asked, taking out her cell. About to dial Regan's number, she realized that Regan would be in the courtroom by now, and punched in Danielle Melnick's cell number instead.

"First stop, Harold Grafton," Curtis said.

* * *

 

.oOo.


	28. Admissible Admissions

_Trial Part 3_

_Supreme Court 100 Centre St_

_2.45 pm Friday May 11_ _th_ _2007_

* * *

Regan cut her eyes to the courtroom clock, checking the time while maintaining the appearance of diligent attention to Mike Cutter's questions as far as the jury was concerned. Already mid-afternoon and Cutter was still showing no sign of calling Keri Dyson to the stand.

 _ **Already**_ _mid-afternoon,_ Regan thought with an internal groan. She felt as if the day had been going for weeks, a parade of inconsequential witnesses who she would not even have bothered to call if she had been prosecuting. Other ADAs who had been at the bar – the bar-tender – Regan listened to Cutter's questions and cross-examined the witnesses, feeling as if neither prosecution nor defense were making much headway.

Not only had Cutter not called Keri Dyson, but he had not produced the originals of the medical records Keri Dyson had brought into Jack McCoy's office as evidence.

After Danielle had passed on Serena's message, Regan knew _why_ Cutter couldn't produce the originals. What she _didn't_ know was whether Cutter knew about the forgeries.

In Judge Wright's chambers, Cutter had claimed that Keri Dyson had refused to give a waiver to give the DA's Office access to her records at Mercy General. _Either he's telling the truth_ , Regan thought, _or he's deliberately withholding exculpatory evidence._

Mike Cutter's reputation for hardball not-withstanding, Regan didn't think he'd lie to the judge. _So Keri's lying to him._ And something about the way his gaze shifted when he told the judge about Keri's refusal to grant a waiver gave Regan the impression that Mike Cutter was beginning to suspect it.

Judge Wright had been decidedly unimpressed by Cutter's failure to produce the original documents – especially since Cutter had been forced to admit that the DA's investigators had confirmed Rob Jordan's story. The doctor _had_ been in Baltimore that night, not at Mercy General. He could not possibly have treated Keri Dyson.

Regan had suggested the copy Keri Dyson had given the DA's Office be sent to the experts in the document lab at One Police Plaza for thorough examination. _Not just the signature_ , she'd urged. _The whole of the documents. Including the dates._

Both Wright and Cutter had picked up on that. The judge had wanted to know what she based her suspicions on, and he'd been sternly disapproving when she prevaricated. _You're not doing yourself or your case any good, Ms Markham_ , he'd warned, but Regan had weighed his disapprobation against admitting Rey Curtis had gained illegal access to hospital records, and kept quiet.

Mike Cutter had said nothing, but from time to time in the courtroom Regan had caught his gaze to find him watching her speculatively. _He's guessed how Keri forged the records_ , she concluded. _I tipped my hand too far – not that I had much choice – and now he's wondering how_ _ **I**_ _know._

She glanced at the clock again. _Three thirty_. _Will this day ever end?_

_Too late for Cutter to call Dyson now. He must be saving her for Monday._

_Or he's going to close without putting her on the stand._

That wouldn't be good. Although the prosecution case would be weaker without the victim's testimony, so too the defense would be weaker with Keri Dyson in the jury's mind as an absent but honest victim. _I need to show them she's lying._ And without the chance to impeach her on the stand, Regan would be hamstrung in what she could say in closing argument about Keri's honesty – or lack of it.

_All I'd be able to do is draw the jury's attention to the fact that she didn't testify – not speculate as to why not._

"Regan," Danielle whispered urgently behind her.

Regan turned in her chair to see Serena Southerlyn crouching in the aisle beside Danielle's chair. At the back of the courtroom, she could see Rey Curtis standing near the door.

"Get a recess," Danielle said. "You need to hear this right away."

Regan nodded. As she turned back to the front of the courtroom Cutter finished his questioning of a young narcotics ADA and sat down.

"Your honor, can I ask for a brief recess?" Regan asked.

"Will you have questions for this witness?" Wright asked.

Regan hesitated. "No, your honor," she said, making up her mind. "The repetitive nature of the prosecution's – "

"That's enough, Ms Markham," Wright said. "Although I take your point." He looked at the clock, frowning. "Mr. Cutter, I note you have only one witness left on your list. Are you planning on calling her this afternoon?"

Cutter rose to his feet. "No, your honor, I planned to suggest that Monday – "

"Noted. All right, everybody, court is adjourned until Monday morning. Mr. Cutter, Ms Markham, a word before you go."

Regan leaned over to McCoy as Cutter started toward the bench and the jury began to file out. "Don't go anywhere," she said, worried he would repeat yesterday's speedy exit from the courtroom.

"You want me to sit here and wait for the reporters?" McCoy asked acidly, with a pointed glance to the back of courtroom where the journalists who had been watching proceedings were already pressing forward.

"Case Conference Seven," Danielle said to them both. "Sally finished early and she's waiting for us there."

"I'll meet you," Regan said, and then as Wright cleared his throat she hurried after Cutter.

"Mr. Cutter, I hope you're planning on introducing some actual evidence on Monday," Wright said warningly. "And I hope your associate has delivered the contested documents to One Police Plaza."

"She has, your honor," Cutter said. "But there is a considerable backlog of work. The lab won't be able to report until – "

"You will have a report for me in chambers on Monday morning," Wright said, "or we will stand adjourned until you do. Am I clear?"

"Yes, your honor," Cutter said, subdued.

"And you, Ms Markham," Wright said. "I don't like lawyers who play ambush in my courtroom. You better not be planning to introduce something you should have mentioned in chambers this morning."

"Your honor," Regan said, "I can honestly say that there is nothing I know at this time that I have any intention of introducing as evidence in this courtroom."

Wright stared at her with narrowed eyes. "That's less categorical than I would like, Ms Markham. You chose your words as carefully as – "

"As a lawyer, your honor?" Regan asked with a bland smile.

"Exactly," Wright said sourly. "You're fortunate that your colleague at the prosecution table has been sailing so close to the wind. I'm inclined to give you similar leeway."

"Thank you, your honor," Regan said.

"Monday morning, Mr. Cutter," Wright said. "Or else."

Regan glanced at Cutter as they walked back to their respective tables. He was frowning slightly, looking, she thought, troubled.

"Ms Markham! Ms Markham! Mr. Cutter!" the reporters started calling as the two lawyers reached the bar, their voices blending into a cacophony of questions. "How's the trial going, Mr. Cutter? Can you tell us what the judge was saying? Is Jack McCoy innocent, Ms Markham? How do you feel the trial is going? When are you going to call Keri Dyson, Mr. Cutter? Are you – "

"I have no comment on a matter currently _sub judice_ ," Cutter said, picking up his briefcase. He opened the bar gate and began to force his way through the throng.

Regan grabbed her own briefcase and followed him, trying to keep her face neutrally pleasant and not look evasive as cameras and microphones were poked in her face. "No comment," she said, over and over again. "No comment." As the reporters pressed in on her she found herself disoriented, unable to see the room beyond the glare of television lights. A journalist pushed another to try and get closer, causing a domino reaction that sent Regan staggering.

Suddenly a hand seized her arm.

"No comment," Mike Cutter said firmly, hauling Regan after him toward the exit, shouldering a particularly aggressive cameraman out of the way. "No comment. No comment."

The media scrum moved with them to the doors, but fell back as Cutter pulled Regan after him into the hallway. The courtroom doors shut behind them, cutting off the shouted questions.

"I thought they can't film in the courtroom," Regan said, shaken.

"They can't film the _trial_ ," Cutter said. "And they can't film in chambers, or case conference, or – ironically – the corridors. But they can mob you on your way up the aisle after the trial is adjourned, and then again on the steps outside. And you're welcome, by the way."

"Thanks," Regan said belatedly. "I wasn't – I've never been in that kind of – Jesus, no wonder celebrities snap!"

Cutter chuckled. "No question, there's plenty of interest for _People v McCoy_ ," he said. "I've tried some high-profile drug cases in my time, but I've never seen anything like this." Regan shook her head in bewilderment, and Cutter snorted. "Oh, come _on_ , Ms Markham, you can't be surprised. Jack McCoy's made plenty of headlines in his time and he's talked about as Arthur's successor in some circles. He's spent three decades being New York's self-appointed moral guardian and now he's been shown to have feet of clay. _That's_ news."

"You're talking as if he's been convicted," Regan snapped back. "You haven't won yet, Mr. Cutter. Maybe the story is going to be how an ambitious young ADA cut one too many corners in his race to the top and came comprehensively unstuck."

Cutter hesitated, then looked around to make sure they were unobserved, and took her arm again, pulling her to a corner. "Look," he said, quiet and intense, "I know you have something. You must think it's a magic bullet, or you wouldn't be so confident. You know and I know that whatever the police lab says, those medical records stink like five-day-old fish. Tell me what you've got."

"You want a preview of my case, counselor?" Regan asked.

"You ambush me, I'll scream to high heaven," Cutter warned.

"Why don't you tell _me_ something," Regan countered. "You know those records aren't real. And – " Light dawned. "And you _know_ Keri Dyson's lying. That's why you won't put her on the stand! You can't put her on the stand without running foul of EC 7-26, can you?"

Cutter said nothing, and that _nothing_ was an admission.

"Then why in hell are you still prosecuting?" Regan demanded. "DR 7 – "

"I know what DR 7-103 says," Cutter said. "And first of all, Ms Markham, it's about _instituting_ charges, not continuing them. And secondly – I don't have any reason to believe these charges are unsupported. Oh – " he raised his hand to cut her off as she opened her mouth to speak and she fell silent. "I know that there are some holes in my witness's story. I know that I _don't_ know what happened that night. But I do know one thing, Ms Markham."

"And what's that?" she demanded.

"I know your client would have pled to the charges if he'd followed his own inclination," Cutter said. "So, Ms Markham, I may not know exactly what happened, and I admit, I'm going to have some trouble proving my case, but I do know, for sure and certain, that Jack McCoy is a guilty man."

* * *

 

.oOo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EC 7-26 is that part of the 'Code of Professional Responsibility' that prohibits the use of 'fraudulent, false, or perjured testimony or evidence', while DR 7-103 states that 'A public prosecutor or other government lawyer shall not institute or cause to be instituted criminal charges when he or she knows or it is obvious that the charges are not supported by probable cause.'
> 
> As far as media in the courtroom is concerned, I have tried to be consistent with what's shown in various episodes in L&O, which are not all consistent with each other and are generally not consistent with the state of the law in New York State. So, for example, in 'Blaze' it's a matter of some controversy that witness testimony be filmed; in an episode featuring Jamie Ross, McCoy and Jamie have to force their way out of the courtroom through a mob of reporters.


	29. Poison Fruit

**Poison Fruit**

* * *

_Conference Room Seven_

_Supreme Court 100 Centre St_

_4pm Friday May 11 2007_

* * *

"Can we get this over with?" Jack McCoy asked.

"Wait for Regan," Serena said. To someone else, Serena might have seemed her usual cool and expressionless self, but McCoy had worked with her for too many years to be taken in. He could tell she was barely able to sit still with excitement, although being Serena that excitement found expression only in the restless tapping of one finger on the side of her chair. Danielle, Sally and Nora stood by the window, Danielle telling Sally quietly about the day's testimony.

McCoy ran his fingers through his hair and then leaned back in his chair and folded his arms, debating with himself whether or not to simply walk out. The day had been another ordeal of listening to Mike Cutter's insinuations and Regan's cross-examination, designed to cast doubt in the jurors' minds but as far as McCoy was concerned, only drawing out the trial and delaying the inevitable. He hadn't tried to stop her. _She made it clear yesterday that_ _ **that**_ _wasn't an option._ And he didn't have the heart for another knock-down, drag-out argument with Regan. Last night, lying awake, he'd been haunted as much by the memory of Regan, whey-faced and trembling, as by his imagination of what he'd done to Keri Dyson.

When sleep had come at last, it had brought no rest. In his dreams, McCoy had walked the corridors of the Supreme Court building, hearing Abbie weeping behind the closed doors of the courtrooms he passed, until he came to the door of the women's restroom. For a long time he had stood looking at it, knowing in the hazy way of dreams that he would find Regan behind it, dreading seeing what he'd done to her, knowing that he couldn't turn away.

But when he had opened the door he had seen, not Regan Markham, but Claire Kincaid – Claire as she had been the last time he had seen her, wearing her dark coat. Her eyes were shadowed from a sleepless night, just as they had been that morning, and just like that morning he could see the disappointment and the accusation in them.

She had not been able to understand how he did not share her revulsion and despair at the deliberate taking of a life, had thought she could persuade him, had argued her case with passion and logic and the best legal authorities – and he had never been able to resist the opportunity to argue, had never been able to resist the need to win.

In his dream, he could see as clearly as he had that day so long ago that she was losing faith in her power to make him the man she believed he could be – the man he had tried to be, for her, a man who was certainly a better man than the one he had been when he met her.

Knowing he was dreaming, he was still desperately glad to see her, and at the same time angry. _Why_ _ **this**_ _moment?_ he wondered. _When it's been so long since I've seen her, in dreams or in memory, why_ _ **this**_ _moment, why can't I see her when she was happy, when she loved me, when she believed in me?_

But he had learnt, in all the years since she had left him behind, to take what he could get, and so he had held out his arms to her and whispered her name. And she had come to him, wound her arms around his neck and pressed her slender body against his, just for a moment warm and real.

Then she had raised her head from his shoulder and leaned back to look at him with those huge, accusing eyes, had pressed her hand against his cheek and told him _You're not the man I knew, Jack McCoy._

That had been the end of sleep for McCoy last night.

And when Regan had turned up at his door, the shadows beneath her eyes and the defeated slump of her shoulders had told him she was as tired as he was. _Too tired to fight_.

He'd never thought that could be possible, that he could be too tired to argue, too tired for anger, but Regan's offered truce had not roused the instinct to attack at the sign of weakness. McCoy had felt only relief.

Even her trespass into his past had roused only a defensive wariness, and Regan had back away from the topic quickly, both of them like exhausted prize-fighters in the tenth round, circling each other warily, too tired to throw or take a blow.

The door opened, startling him from his reverie, and Regan came in. She was a little disheveled and seemed flustered.

"Sorry," she said. "Got mobbed by the press pack." She tossed her briefcase onto the table and pulled out the chair next to McCoy.

"What did you say?" Danielle asked.

"No comment," Regan said, sinking into her seat.

Danielle frowned a little. "Next time, make sure you get in a line about your client's innocence, your confidence about the outcome. The jury isn't supposed to know but – "

"Godammit, Danielle, I've got enough on my plate without whoring to the press!" Regan snapped. There was a small silence, and Regan took a breath. "Sorry." She pushed her hair back from her face with a shaking hand. The gesture revealed a red mark on her cheekbone.

"What's that?" McCoy asked, and when Regan looked blank, he indicated the place on his own cheek. "On your face."

She touched the place and flinched. "One of the cameras got a little too close," she said.

And right then, McCoy discovered he wasn't too tired to be angry. "They _what_?" he demanded, leaning closer to get a better look.

"It was a scrum, Jack, there was some jostling," Regan said.

McCoy was on his feet. "Judge Wright has the power to ban them from the courtroom and I think – "

"I think we've got more important things to worry about," Regan said sharply. "Sit _down_." She held his gaze until he reluctantly sank back into his chair. "Serena, Mr. Curtis," she said. "What have you got?"

"Do you want to tell them?" Serena asked Curtis.

He shook his head with a smile. "You go ahead."

Serena took four files from her briefcase and laid them on the table. "Keri Dyson laid charges against Harold Grafton for assault in 2000," she said, resting her fingers on the first file. "In 2004, Barry Norrell hired Keri to work in his firm." She touched the second and the third. "In 2005, Nicholas Cherry gave Keri a substantial promotion when he brought her into the Identity Fraud Bureau out of appeals." She pointed to the fourth file. "And in 2007, Keri Dyson told Jack that he could escape criminal charges for assault if he got her a transfer to Narcotics."

One after the other, with the dexterity and flair of a card-sharp, Serena flipped open the files. The first held photographic prints of medical records. The second, third and fourth held photocopies.

"Which of these things is not like the other ones?" Serena asked smugly. "Oh, wait – _none of them._ "

Regan reached for the files as Sally, Nora and Danielle crowded closer to the table, peering over her shoulder. McCoy leaned forward as well, gaze drawn to the medical report that detailed Keri Dyson's injuries, although he knew what was in it, could not have forgotten it if he'd tried even after that single reading in his office. _Cracked cheekbone, contusions, trauma to the lower and upper lip_ …

He tore his gaze away, forcing himself to look at the folder next to it, the one Serena had identified by the name 'Nicholas Cherry'. Instead, he saw the same horrifying list of injuries on an identical page.

McCoy blinked hard, and shook his head slightly. _Get it together. Stop imagining things._ The page refused to disappear. He closed his eyes for a moment, then forced himself to open them and look at the next folder, but again, all he could see was the catalogue of injuries he'd inflicted.

He sat very still, determined not to let the women around him know he had lost it, gone so far over the edge he was hallucinating.

"This is fucking fantastic, Serena," Regan said, her tone reverent. _What is_? McCoy wondered, but couldn't work out how to ask without betraying himself.

"Never blackmail lawyers," Serena said, a laugh in her voice. "Either they turn you in – or they keep excellent records."

McCoy looked again at the files in front of him, seeing only the evidence of what he'd done, who he'd become. _I have to get out of here_ , he thought, tried to push back his chair but found Nora behind him, leaning over his shoulder. _I have to get out of here._

Clear as if she had leaned over and whispered in his ear, he heard Claire's voice. _You're not the man I knew, Jack McCoy_ , she murmured, with the teasing note in her voice that always let him know she was smiling. _For one thing, you're way more stupid._

_Serena_ _**said** _ _they were all alike._

McCoy leaned forward, forcing himself to look at the files again, to look past the words that made his gut twist with memory. _All from Mercy General. All signed by Rob Jordan. All dated …_

_No._

One dated last week. One dated August 2005. One dated May 2004 and in the last folder, photographs of the same file, this time dated June 2000.

_The same file._

_Not the same file. All_ _**copies** _ _of the same file._

_All_ _**forgeries** _ _._

There was a roaring in his ears, drowning out the voices around him. He looked at his hand, flat on the table, the hand that he had been unable to imagine as a fist striking a woman's face.

Not a failure of imagination, or a failure to accept responsibility.

_Not a failure at all_.

Relief swept over him, dizzying in its intensity. It wasn't true.

_It was never true._

He looked up. Sally and Danielle were in intense conversation, debating courtroom tactics, as Nora listened. Regan had taken a legal pad from her briefcase and was making notes as fast as she could drive the pen across the paper.

"Regan," McCoy said.

"'Sec, Jack," she said, still writing.

" _Regan_ ," McCoy said, putting his hand on her arm. "I didn't do it."

"I know, Jack," Regan said impatiently, still half-distracted.

"No – Regan – " He wanted something more from her, some recognition of how momentously important this was, but the significance seemed to elude her.

The he realized that as far as she was concerned, it was no earth-shattering revelation.

Regan had never needed his innocence proven to her. _She never had any doubt. Not for a minute. No matter what I said – or did._

_What did I do to deserve such loyalty?_

He didn't realize he'd spoken the last sentence aloud until Regan smiled, and covered his hand with her own.

"You saw that the water was up to my neck when I thought it was only knee high," she said.

McCoy shook his head slightly, in bemusement rather than negation, and Regan's fingers tightened on his.

"Regan," Sally said, and Regan turned away from McCoy and leaned forward. "We need to set up another practice cross-examination for you before Cutter calls Dyson on Monday morning."

"Sunday," Danielle said.

"Another?" McCoy asked.

"There's no point," Regan said, with a quick glance at McCoy that said _I'll explain later._ "Cutter _knows_ she's lying to him. That's why he hasn't called her – he can't suborn perjury. And he _won't_ call her, either."

"Doesn't matter," Serena said. "You can introduce all _this_ – " She indicated the three last files, "in _your_ case after the People rest. And I think that with a few days I can talk Barry Norrell into testifying. He's pretty mad."

"Yeah," Curtis said from where he had been leaning against the wall, almost forgotten by the lawyers gathered around the table. "He was cagey at first but once I told him that he wasn't the only one, and that we had proof Keri Dyson had lied to him, he started talking pretty quickly."

"Okay, we'll list him as a witness – " Regan said.

"Not until Monday," Danielle cautioned. "You can legitimately wait until you're sure he'll do it – don't give Cutter any more warning than you can help – "

"What did you say you told Norrell, Detective?" McCoy interrupted.

"He didn't want to talk to me at all," Curtis said, "But once I told him we could prove that Ms Dyson's accusations were false, he opened up and told me everything, including handing over the file he'd kept with the medical records she'd used to blackmail him. His story is the same as yours. Memory loss, and then Ms Dyson turns up with bruises and a sob story and a proposal to let him off he gives her a nice new job."

"You told him you had evidence?" McCoy said.

"Yes," Curtis said.

"What's wrong, Jack?" Regan asked.

"I take it these photographs of a confidential medical record were not obtained legally?" McCoy said, pointing to the first folder.

"Since we're not planning to introduce them it's not – " Serena said.

McCoy shook his head. "You'd better stop planning to introduce _any_ of them," he said. "They're all fruit of the poison tree."

"That applies to illegal searches by the _police_ ," Danielle said. "Believe me, Jack, I've relied on it often enough at in _limine_ hearings to know."

"To the police _or their agents_ ," McCoy said. "We're in front of William Wright, leader of the cheer-squad for the Fourth Amendment. You, Detective Curtis, are a former homicide detective working in company with a former prosecutor on behalf of an attorney and client who are current, if suspended, members of the DA's Office. If you put Norrell on the stand and Cutter asks him about his conversation with Detective Curtis, all of this is going to be ruled inadmissible faster than you can blink. You'll be left with nothing but Norrell's word. What do you think _that's_ worth?"

"Shit," Serena said. "What if he doesn't say anything?"

"That's not a chance I'd like to take," Danielle said.

"We could cover off the issue in advance," Sally suggested. "Leave no reason for Cutter to ask the question. Mr. Curtis could take the stand to testify about his investigation and Regan could ask him – "

"Ms Bell, I wouldn't testi-lie for Mr. McCoy when I was a cop and I won't do it now," Curtis said.

"How are we going to get it in, then?" Regan asked, sounding as if she were on the edge of panic. "How are we going to get it in?"

"The only way is on cross," McCoy said. "You can use it to impeach – _if_ Cutter opens the door."

Regan shook her head. "He won't. He won't call her. He's too smart, Jack. He's too smart. He – "

Danielle put her hand on Regan's shoulder an instant before McCoy reached out to do the same thing. He let his hand drop back to the table as Danielle said reassuringly: "We'll figure something out, Regan, don't worry."

Regan's jaw set.

"Don't patronize her, Danielle," McCoy said. "Or do you want her to go play with her doll-house while the grown-ups sort this out?"

Danielle drew breath to reply and Nora Lewin held up her hands. "I don't know about any of you, but I am _exhausted_. And I don't think anything is going to be solved by us taking our lack of sleep and low-blood-sugar out on each other. So I suggest we adjourn until tomorrow morning. We can reconvene at Abbie's and look at this with fresh eyes."

"Not me," Serena said. "I'm going to Virginia."

"Virginia?" Sally asked.

"I got a line on Joe Evatt," Curtis said. "Your doorman, Mr. McCoy. He was working last Thursday night and hasn't been in since – or at home. But I finally talked to one of the neighbors who said his younger sister had a baby on Friday, almost three months early, and Joe took time off from work to go down to Richmond and be with his family."

"Do you know where?" McCoy asked.

"No, but how many hospitals are there in Richmond with neo-natal ICUs?" Curtis said. "I've got a photo from his employment records, we can flash it around and see if any of the nurses or medical technicians recognize him from visiting hours."

"We're going to drive down tonight," Serena said. "Stay over, hit the ground running tomorrow morning and track him down – see what he has to say." She hesitated. "And Jack – I won't screw up again."

"You didn't screw up," McCoy said, turning to include Curtis in that. "Either of you. You got the evidence – evidence I didn't even believe existed. We just have to be creative in how we use it." He looked at Regan, caught her gaze and held it. "And we will be."

She nodded, accepting his reassurance the way she had not accepted Danielle's.

* * *

 

.oOo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fruit of the poisonous tree is a legal metaphor in the United States used to describe evidence gathered with the aid of information obtained illegally. Like the exclusionary rule, the fruit-of-the-poisonous-tree doctrine is intended to deter police from using illegal means to obtain evidence. The discovery of a witness is not evidence in itself because the witness is attenuated by separate interviews, in-court testimony and their own statements, but I have stretched that in this story for plot purposes. The phrase is drawn from the biblical passage found in Matthew 7:17 and 7:18, which reads "Even so every good tree bringeth forth good fruit; but a corrupt tree bringeth forth evil fruit. A good tree cannot bring forth evil fruit, neither a corrupt tree bring forth good fruit."


	30. Extradition

_Supreme Court 100 Centre St_

_4:30 pm Friday May 11 2007_

* * *

The late afternoon sun was still warm as they left the courthouse. McCoy paused on the steps, feeling the breeze as if he had been shut inside for weeks instead of just since that morning. The others kept walking, Serena and Curtis heading for her car, Danielle going left and Sally and Nora walking side-by-side, talking quietly. Only Regan stopped, waiting for him.

"Monday's going to be a hell of a day," she said when he started down the steps again, falling into step beside him.

He grinned. "Cutter's not as smart as he thinks he is."

"If he's _half_ as smart as he thinks he is, I'm in trouble," Regan said.

McCoy shook his head. "You can take him."

"In a bar-brawl, sure," Regan said. "In the courtroom, not so much."

"My money's on you," McCoy said.

"It kind of has to be, doesn't it?" Regan said, but she was smiling.

They turned together and began to walk along Centre Street toward the subway. After a moment McCoy broke the companionable silence.

"Why were you so sure?" he asked her.

Claire would have given him a look, mingled affection and exasperation. She'd have taken his arm. _You big dope,_ she'd have said.

_Because I love you._

Regan kept walking, gaze on the pavement. "Because I know you," she said.

"That's not enough," McCoy said.

"It's what I've got, okay!" Regan flared.

"No, I mean – as a lawyer. You can't just 'know'. You need to look at the evidence and reason it out. Feminine intuition isn't a sound guide to guilt or – "

"Oh for – how many times have you gone with your gut instinct, Jack?" Regan asked. "A man makes a judgment call and he's got good instincts. A woman does it and she's being irrational. Give me a break!"

"That's not what I'm talking about," McCoy said.

"It's _exactly_ what you're talking about."

"You didn't make a judgment call – you closed your eyes and jumped."

"Because you _asked_ me to," Regan said.

"That's not judgment. It's blind faith." McCoy turned to look at her as they walked. "Justice is blind, Regan. The people who work for her can't afford to be."

"We all need to trust someone, Jack," Regan said.

"You shouldn't trust me that much. You _don't_ know me."

"I know enough," Regan said. "I know everything I need to know."

She didn't look at him as she spoke and he wondered what it was she thought she knew, striding through the early evening with her chin up and her jaw set.

Before he could ask her she stopped. "This is my subway," she said. "See you tomorrow?"

"Yeah," McCoy said. "Or, we could – are you hungry?"

Regan shook her head. "I'm _tired_ ," she said. "And so are you. Go get some sleep, Jack."

He accepted his dismissal. She turned and walked away from him, toward the subway, and then stopped, and turned. "I always knew you hadn't done it," she said. "I told you. If you couldn't trust your own judgment, why didn't you trust mine?"

McCoy hesitated.

"I guess we don't _all_ need to trust someone," Regan said with a sad little smile. She turned, and was gone before he could form an answer.

Her words stayed with him all the way home. He found some cold Chinese in the fridge and ate it standing up at the sink, unwilling to go into the living room where the pile of boxes were a silent reminder of the waking nightmare that the last week had been.

 _We all need to trust someone_ … Which was a fine sentiment, as far as it went, but it was the people you trusted who betrayed you.

_Who turn out to be someone you never knew, with a name you've never heard. Who turn their backs on the values you thought you shared. Who leave. One way or another._

The apartment felt empty, as if no-one really lived here. McCoy told himself it was just because he'd packed up almost everything he'd owned, spending days and nights concentrating on the task because while he was working out how to fit the largest number of books in the smallest number of boxes he wasn't thinking about anything else.

 _Liar._ The hollow quiet was a familiar feeling, one that would usually see him picking up the phone, flipping through his address book as he pondered which number to dial.

Tonight, though, he thought he was exhausted enough to sleep even with the apartment echoing the silence back at him. He went into the living room long enough to retrieve the photograph from the wall and took it into the bedroom, propping it on the bedside table. The room was less empty with her there.

_We all need to trust someone…_

Had Claire trusted him? Or had she trusted that the version of him she believed in was real?

It wasn't a question that had occurred to him when they were together. It wasn't a question he could answer now she was gone.

He lay down, leaving the bed-side light on so he could still see her, laughing – the way she'd always be laughing – laughing at something he'd said, something so unimportant he couldn't even remember it. She'd told him she knew him, too. _I know you too well to think that's what you really believe_ , she'd said, somewhere in amidst the last, worst fight they'd had.

She hadn't known him. She'd just believed he couldn't really be the man in front of her, had been convinced that there was a real Jack McCoy buried inside, the man she had faith he could become.

_Maybe there had been._

_Or maybe there could have been. Back then, in the past._

An old quote came back to him, unbidden. _But that was in another country, and besides, the wench is dead._

He closed his eyes, Claire's laughing face still clear in his mind.

The next he knew, the phone was ringing. Disoriented, he reached out, fumbling on the nightstand.

"Hello?"

"Mr. McCoy, I have a long-distance call for you. Will you accept the charges?" Colleen Petraky said.

"Colleen?" McCoy asked. "What – ?"

"Will you accept the charges?" she said again, and McCoy was no longer certain he recognized her voice.

"Yes," he said. "Yes, I'll accept the charges."

There was a click on the line, a pause, and then Claire Kincaid said: "Jack?"

His heart stopped beating. He couldn't move or speak or breathe.

"Jack, are you there?" Her voice was thin and crackly with distance.

He got a breath. "Yes," he said hoarsely. "I'm here. Claire, I'm here."

His mind racedto explanations – it had been a terrible misunderstanding, a mistake; it had been an elaborate ruse to put her into witness protection; the last decade had been a nightmare from which he was now waking – where was she, how far – should he take the bike, hire a car – would he need to fly – _Tell me where you are, Claire, I'll be right there_.

But he didn't say it, because at the same time as he sought desperately for a rational explanation, he was noticing how consistent his imagination had become. _Because if the past is a foreign country, then_ _ **of course**_ _it's a long distance call._

"Claire," he said again, instead, trying desperately not to wake up. "I'm here."

The last words he'd spoken to her – not the last words she'd heard him say, getting out of the car, but the last words he'd said to her in the hospital. _I'm here, Claire. I'm here._ As if she could hear him. _As if it mattered._

"You're such an idiot," Claire said. "The man I knew would have fought this from the beginning."

He held the phone receiver so hard that if he'd been awake it would have cracked in his hand. "I'm not the man you knew, Claire."

"That's obvious," she said.

If he could have seen her face, he would have known how she meant him to take that, but the distance and the phone-line flattened her voice and robbed him of any hidden meanings.

"I'm – " McCoy bit back the next word. _I'm the man losing you made me_ , he could have told her, _wanted_ to tell her, _wanted_ her to know how that moment when he had heard Adam's voice crackling out of the answering machine _Pick up the phone. Jack. Pick up the phone. It's Claire. You need to come to the hospital, Jack. Pick up the phone. There's been an accident. Goddamn it, Jack, pick up the phone!_ had lodged down inside him like a mouthful of slow poison, incurable, inexorable …

_But what would that do? How would that change anything?_

She must have heard it in his voice. "Are you going to blame _me_ now?"

"I'm not _blaming_ you," McCoy said quickly. "Claire."

"Using me as an _excuse_ , then," Claire said. He heard her sigh. "You've been doing that for a while."

"An _excuse_ , Jesus!" McCoy said, genuinely angry. "As if I _wanted_ – "

"As if you wanted to hold on," Claire said, gently. "I know, Jack. It's alright, I'm here."

"Not so often," McCoy said without thinking. "It's been – " _such a long time since I've seen you. Years, even, until that moment in the car on the way home from Carthage._

"When you want me," Claire said. "When you want me, I'm here. So, hey, are you going to kick Mike Cutter's ass?"

He couldn't help smiling, hearing her smile in the low drawl of her voice. "I'm going to try," he said.

"A lawyer who represents himself – "

"Has a fool for a client," McCoy finished. "I know. I have a lawyer."

"Any good?" Claire asked. Her voice was easy, conversational – just like the old days, when they'd talked over cases on the phone, over dinner, in bed.

"She's got a few tricks up her sleeve," McCoy said. "I'd rather it was you, though."

" _She_?" Claire said. "The new model? What is she, Sally Bell mark two?"

"No," McCoy said.

"Don't tell me she's the new release Diana Hawthorne!" Claire said.

"No," McCoy said again. "She's not – she's an ex-cop. Nothing like Sally _or_ Diana." _Nothing like you, either._ "Rough edges. A temper."

"Sounds like Mike Logan in drag," Claire said.

McCoy snorted. "Closer to Mike than Diana, that's for sure," he said. "But – " He paused, reaching for the words, then gave up. "She's not you," he said instead. "Not even close."

He heard her sigh. "You should get some sleep, Jack," she said. "You've got a lot of work to do."

"No – " he said quickly. "Don't go, Claire. Don't – "

He was awake, and listening to a dial tone.

_Don't go, Claire._

But she had.

* * *

.oOo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "But that was in another country, and besides, the wench is dead." is a quote from Christopher Marlowe's play "The Jew of Malta."


	31. The Accused

_Abbie Carmichael's Townhouse_

_8 pm Saturday May 12_ _th_ _2007_

The doorbell rang, a long sustained peal, followed by another before Abbie had even got up from the dining room table.

"Someone's in a hurry," Sally observed, looking up from her chicken kung-pao as Abbie's exit was accompanied by a series of short pulses of the bell that indicated the jabbing of an impatient finger.

"Probably – " Danielle started, but before she could finish speculating there were hurried footsteps in the hall and Serena Southerlyn burst into the room.

"You are not going to _believe_ this," she said triumphantly, waving a folder. Regan couldn't remember ever seeing the self-possessed attorney this animated. "You are absolutely _not_ going to believe _this_."

She tossed the folder onto the table amidst the detritus of take-away dinner.

"Wait," Nora cautioned, as Abbie appeared in the doorway behind Serena. Behind Abbie Regan could see Megan Wheeler.

Abbie took Nora's cue. "Megan, why don't you help me put the coffee on," she said.

Serena made what looked to be a heroic effort of self-control and held her tongue until the kitchen door had closed behind the two women.

"You found Joe Evatt, I take it," Danielle said dryly, picking up the folder.

"Found him, deposed him, got his agreement to testify," Serena said. "He not only saw the cab driver and Keri Dyson carrying Jack into the apartment building, he not only went up in the elevator with Keri and Jack because Jack was, his words, 'out for the count', but _after_ he unlocked Jack's apartment and dumped him on his bed he got worried and – "

"Holy Mary mother of _fuck_ – " Sally said, reading over Danielle's shoulder. "He called Margolis?"

"And stayed until the doctor got there," Serena said. "Which was _after_ Keri left."

"So much for he-said, she-said," Danielle said, smiling. "There's no window of opportunity. Let's see Cut-throat Cutter tap-dance his way out of _that_."

Serena looked around "So where the hell is Jack?" she asked. "He ought to hear this. And if he gives a waiver, we can ask Dr Margolis – "

"Jack took his bike out," Regan said. She didn't have to say _In case he doesn't get another chance_. The possibility of conviction had hung over the table all day as they worked.

And despite Serena's good news, Regan could not shake the sense of foreboding. _This is fantastic_ , she told herself. _We'll show the jury that Jack couldn't possibly have assaulted Keri – we'll prove it to them –_

But she knew all too well that juries could be remarkably resistant to having things proved to them. _If juries always recognized the truth when they saw it, plea bargains would have no place in the criminal justice system. Whichever side was in the right – prosecution or defense – would have no incentive to strike a deal._

But deals were made, every day. She herself had struck dozens since starting to work with Jack McCoy last September. Evidence that convinced cops and prosecutors could leave juries indifferent; defendants who looked guilty as sin in a police interview room struck jurors as angelic choirboys; water-tight cases sprang sudden leaks in the courtroom.

_Having proof is one thing_. _Proving it to the jury is quite another._

"I think this deserves some celebration," Serena said. "Do we have any champagne?"

"We have –" Sally said, looking around at the dishes on the table, "Kung pao chicken, sweet-and-sour pork, chow mein, and I _think_ there's some beef left. But no champagne."

The kitchen door opened. "Abbie wants to know if it's safe for her to bring the coffee out," Wheeler said.

Danielle and Sally exchanged glances, and then Danielle nodded, and started gathering together the files and papers scattered among the cardboard boxes of food. "We'll talk more about this in the morning," she said. "We've been on this all day – time to call it a night."

Regan helped Danielle clear the legal papers from the table while Nora carried the remains of dinner into the kitchen and Abbie brought out a tray with coffee, cream and sugar.

"I'm not asking for you to tell me anything that I shouldn't know," Abbie said carefully as she set the tray down, "but – good news?"

"Excellent news," Serena said, and a broad grin broke across Abbie's face.

"Can I offer anyone anything stronger?" she said.

Serena opened her mouth to answer and then Regan saw her glance quickly at Abbie's swollen stomach. "Actually, I'm fine – " she said.

"Please," Abbie said. "Give me a little vicarious pleasure here!"

Serena laughed. "I'd sell a kidney for a drink," she admitted. "It's been a _very_ long day."

Regan went to the living room sideboard and brought a bottle of scotch and six glasses back to the dining room table. Abbie disappeared back into the kitchen and came back with a glass of soda water as Regan poured drinks for the rest of the women.

She raised her own glass for a toast. "To dumb – " she started automatically, and stopped. _To dumb defendants and smart jurors_ , she'd been about to say.

"To justice," Nora said, raising her own glass. "Blind, slow and certain."

They all drank.

Regan wanted to ask Danielle if she thought Evatt's evidence would be strong enough to convince the jury, wanted to ask Serena if he would come across as a credible witness on the stand, but she couldn't broach the topic with Abbie and Megan Wheeler there. "How was the drive?" she asked instead.

" _Long_ ," Serena said. "And let's just say that Rey Curtis and I don't have _exactly_ the same taste in music."

Wheeler laughed. "You're the whitest girl in New York City," she said teasingly. "And the drive was _scenic_."

"You went up with them?" Danielle asked.

"And spent the day sight-seeing while Serena and Rey hunted down Evatt," Wheeler reassured her. "But believe me, if I hadn't gone along, they'd still be on the way to Richmond. They're old ladies behind the wheel, both of them."

"Thank you, Ayrton Senna," Serena said drily.

The bottle went around the table again.

"Jack should be here," Regan said. "He should hear about – he should hear the news."

"Oh, I don't know," Sally said. "If he was here we couldn't talk about him behind his back."

Abbie laughed. "We _aren't_ talking about him behind his back."

"Well, we should start," Sally said. Regan saw that her glass was empty again already and realized that Sally was a little bit tipsy. "This is like the six ages of Jack McCoy around the table. Law school – " she pointed to Danielle. "Junior prosecutor – " she indicated herself. "And a decade as EADA." She gestured to Abbie, Serena and Regan. "We could have around this table the single greatest body of knowledge about John James McCoy every gathered in one place."

"Oh, we're missing a few invaluable sources," Nora said. "Abbie's predecessor – either of Jack's wives – "

"Oh, neither of Jack's wives knew as much about him as anyone of us," Sally said. "You have to work with Jack to understand him. Now Jamie Ross – Jamie, I'll grant you."

"Pulled him out of the bottle, AC" Danielle said, nodding. "She deserves all our thanks for that."

"AC?" Regan asked.

"After Claire," Danielle said. "You can talk about the six ages of Jack McCoy, Sally, but really, it's only two. Before Claire Kincaid – and after."

"When I – " Regan said, hesitated, then plunged on: "I met Jack's neighbor, Mrs. Farr. She said that when Claire died, he took it pretty hard."

"Understatement," Sally said. "Nothing ever got in the way of Jack doing his job, but for a while there, you could smell the eau-de-gin-mill from the defense table. I wondered, for a while, if it was only going to be a matter of time … "

"You know Jack, he doesn't exactly open up at the best of times," Danielle said. "I tried – I know Liz Olivet tried – Adam Schiff did – but the only person he couldn't avoid was Jamie Ross."

"You have to _work_ with Jack," Sally said again. "To know him. Try cases. Then he can't get away from you."

"So here's to Jamie," Danielle said, raising her glass.

"So you're saying that working with Jack is the key to understanding him," Regan said.

"No, no, I don't agree with that," Abbie said, waving her finger. "Sorry, Sally, but I just don't. There's _no_ understanding Jack McCoy, not in the way you mean. You think that once you get past that _wall_ , you'll see the real Jack McCoy. And then you do, and you find you're looking at the back of the wall. And the real Jack McCoy – well, you were looking at him all along."

"He's not a _wall_ ," Sally said. "He's an _onion_."

"Okay," Serena said, laughing. "He's small and round and – "

"You think you can peel away the layers and you'll get to something," Sally interrupted. "But it's like an onion – take off a layer and all you have is a smaller onion. And it makes you cry."

"Sally, if you're going to get maudlin over _Jack McCoy_ I'm taking away your drinking privileges," Danielle said. "For god sake, shed a tear over something worth crying over. That Kleenex commercial with the little ducklings, or something."

Sally laughed, and Regan thought there was a note of bitterness to it. "I shed my last tear over Jack McCoy long ago."

"What's it like to have him work for you, Nora?" Serena asked. "You're the only one of us who can answer that question."

Nora pursed her lips, and then gave a small smile, as inscrutable as the Sphinx. "I'm sure you can imagine," she said, picking up her glass.

"Oh, go on, Nora," Danielle said. "There must be stories you're _dying_ to tell. And when else are you going to have the opportunity to tell them and be covered by attorney-client privilege?"

Nora smiled again, and Regan thought she wasn't going to say anything. Then Nora set her glass down. "Supportive," she said. "Dedicated. Brilliant, at times." She paused. "And at others, stubborn, opinioned, infuriating – "

Whatever else she had been going to say was drowned out by the others' laughter.

"So, Jack is the same as an employee as a boss, is that what you're saying?" Serena said.

"I don't know," Nora said. "I've never worked for him."

Danielle laughed.

"Danielle Melnick, did you just cackle?' Nora demanded.

"No," Danielle said.

"It was a guffaw," Abbie said. "I'm from Texas. We know from guffaws."

"Abbie, are you tipsy?" Serena asked.

"On soda water?" Abbie said.

"Maybe it's a contact high," Sally said, and Danielle laughed again.

"The only thing you need to know about Jack – " she started.

Abbie cut her off. "Is that he's standing behind you."

"Wondering," McCoy said from the doorway with a touch of asperity, "What's so goddamn funny."

Regan looked at Serena, who was looking at Nora, who was carefully looking at her glass with a perfect poker face. Silence stretched a beat, stretched longer as McCoy took a couple of steps into the room and put his motorcycle helmet down on the table.

"Well, you see, Jack," Sally said, "I was just explaining that you're an onion."

McCoy's eyebrows shot up. Regan bit the inside of her cheek hard to keep from laughing, then met Abbie's dancing gaze and gave up, as Serena began to snicker quietly. A second later and they were all helpless with laughter.

McCoy looked from a cackling Danielle to a guffawing Abbie. "I knew it was a mistake to leave you girls in a room together without supervision," he said dryly.

"But not that it was a mistake to call a group of senior legal colleagues 'girls'?" Nora asked.

"A group of senior legal colleagues?" McCoy asked. His voice was dry but Regan thought she could see a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Or a hens night in?"

He grabbed a chair and swung it around to straddle it, arms folded on the back, amused gaze going from one to the other. Sally snorted.

"And the cock-of-the-walk's going to join the hens?"

"I figure I'd better stay to defend myself," McCoy said. "Pass the bottle."

Danielle sent it sliding down the table like she was in an old wild west saloon. "Oh, _now_ you want to defend yourself?" she said. "A week ago when it might have been _useful_ , you had no interest in defending yourself."

McCoy caught the scotch as it shot off the edge of the table and reached out a long arm to snare Serena's glass for himself. For a moment Regan thought Danielle had pushed too far, and then McCoy smiled. "This is a much more important court. Although I'm a little nervous about what I might have been accused of."

"You're just worried we'll compare notes," Sally said.

McCoy sipped his scotch. "I'm worried you'll start playing Truth or Dare again and I'll have to post your bail like I did last time."

"That was years ago, Jack McCoy, and I seem to recall you were on the other side of the bars by good luck rather than good management," Sally said.

"Now that's a story I haven't heard," Nora said.

"And won't hear now," Sally said.

Nora pursed her lips. "No? So you take the dare then?"

"Oh, no," Regan said. "Never play Truth or Dare with lawyers. Last time I did that I ended up walking the balcony rail at SPDHQ bare-ass naked."

"I do not," Sally said with great, if tipsy dignity, "Believe I have a duty to disclose."

"You _are_ a lawyer now, Regan," Danielle pointed out. "Truth or Dare – who would you rather, Arthur Branch or George Bush senior?"

Regan picked up her drink. "Rather what, push off a cliff? Can I hand-cuff them together before I pick?"

Danielle narrowed her eyes. "So you opt for the dare?"

"No, no," Regan said hastily. "Uh, Bush. No, wait, Arthur." She tossed back her drink. "So I could blackmail him after."

She heard what she'd said a second after the word 'blackmail' hit the table and lay there like a rotting toad in the middle of a gourmet dinner. _Shit._ She didn't dare look at McCoy.

"Wish _I'd_ had some out-of-hours pull with the D.A. in _my_ day," Sally said sourly.

"You were Adam's golden girl," McCoy protested.

"Up to a point, Jack," Sally said. She pushed her glass towards him. "Refill."

He poured. "Up to the point you walked out on him."

Sally snorted, threw back the scotch in one gulp. "Up to the point I walked the plank, you mean." McCoy's eyebrows went up, and she snorted again. "Yeah, I know, Adam Schiff the saint, always tolerant of your _foibles_ , Jack. You never caught on to the price of that tolerance, did you? To other people. To _me_."

"He pushed you out?" Danielle asked.

"Gave me a _choice_ ," Sally said. She waved a finger at McCoy. "Choose, he said. Can't have this sort of thing going on. Up to you, if you want to work with Jack McCoy or sleep with him, but you can't do both, he said."

"He threatened to sack you?" McCoy asked, expression almost neutral.

"Nope," Sally said. She picked up her glass and seemed disappointed to discover it empty. " _You."_

"Christ, Sally, why didn't you _tell_ me?"

She shrugged. "What would you have done?"

"Told Adam to shove it," McCoy said. "Called his bluff."

"Well, _that_ would have solved everything," Sally said. "He wasn't bluffing."

"So you made a decision on my behalf?"

"I made a decision on _my_ behalf," Sally said. "We couldn't both stay in the DA's Office and stay together. And I thought – well, the office needs you more than it needed me. And I thought maybe we had a chance. But it turned out we didn't. So." She shrugged. "You live and learn, Jack. You live and learn." Her gaze settled on Regan. "Give up what's important to you for somebody else and you lose every which way. Lose what matters. Lose who you gave it up for."

McCoy ran his fingers through his hair. "Christ, Sally," he said again.

Sally laughed. "I've had the pleasure of kicking your ass in court ever since," she said. "So it hasn't been all bad." She reached again for the bottle, overbalanced and slid out of her chair.

Serena grabbed her a second before McCoy did. "Might be time to call it a night," she murmured, and glanced at Regan. "Lead counsel has news to share with our client, anyway."

"That means I'm going to bed," Abbie said, getting to her feet. "And Megan …"

"Is going to drive Serena home," Megan said. "Car's out front. We'll give you a lift, Ms Bell."

" _Sally_ , please," Sally said, listing sideways a bit. "I think we're past honoror- honif – titles."

Abbie started to pick up plates and glasses from the table and Regan got to her feet as well. "I'll get that," she said. "You might need to get the door for …" She glanced meaningfully at Sally as the public defender sagged again and McCoy helped Serena hold her upright. "Night air's going to hit her like a brick wall."

And clearing the table gave her a reason to be busy as the rest of the 'Jack McCoy Defense League' took their leave. _Especially Danielle._

_You need to think about what's going to happen to_ _ **you**_ , the older woman had said.

_Look at Sally Bell_ , Regan could imagine her adding.

Regan picked up a double handful of glasses and headed for the kitchen as McCoy and Serena helped Sally towards the door and the rest of the crowd drifted out.

_Some conversations it just isn't productive to have._

* * *

 

.oOo.


	32. Persuasive Arguments

McCoy came back into the dining room slowly.

"You get Sally safely down the stairs?" Regan asked.

"Yeah," he said. He picked up his motorcycle helmet and turned it over in his hands. "She's feeling no pain."

Regan stacked the last of the plates. "She'll feel it tomorrow."

McCoy nodded. "She's …" He paused. "I never really knew why she was so _angry_ with me." He paused again, and then gave Regan a sideways grin. "Apart from the fact that I was an asshole. Generically."

Regan made her best effort at a noncommittal noise, and McCoy snorted. "What does that mean? 'Yes, you're an asshole, but I'm too polite to say it'?"

"I think I've told you before," Regan said, setting the plates down carefully. "I don't think you're an asshole."

"But sometimes I act like one?" McCoy's gift for mimicry had Regan hearing her own west-coast burr in his voice. "I wasn't _that_ bad. It was just one of those things. Ship went down."

"Not what I meant." The words slipped out before she'd thought them through, _courtesy of scotch and exhaustion_. She kept her eyes on the plates, stacking and restacking them. "All these years and you never wondered why she left?"

_Leave it. Leave it there._

_Some conversations it just isn't productive to have._

"I'm not fucking _psychic_ , Regan," McCoy said. "She never said a word about – Adam, or any of that."

"Right. She never said." The words kept coming, past better judgment. "And you never asked."

Regan turned her back on his glare before anything else could slip past her lips, past her guard, and carried the plates into the kitchen. McCoy followed her. She took her time rinsing the plates and stacking them in the dishwasher before she turned.

She expected one more of the angry stares she'd been on the receiving end of this week, but McCoy was leaning in the doorway, hands in his pickets, giving her the patented charming S.O.B. Jack McCoy smile. The knot of tension in her chest that she'd grown too used to to even notice loosened, and she found herself smiling back.

"Sally should have told me," McCoy said quietly. "Even if I might have been an asshole about it – and I'm not admitting I would have – she should have told me, rather than – than _martyring_ herself for my career and then holding it against me."

Regan nodded agreement, and then said, equally quietly, "You should have seen it. That it might be causing problems for her. You should have thought it through."

McCoy sighed. "It was a different time, Regan. We weren't the only couple in the DA's office. Just the … the _highest profile._ " He shrugged. "Adam never pushed for Diana Hawthorn's resignation. Or Claire's."

"That you know," Regan said.

He gave her a long, level look. "That I know."

Regan sighed. "Is there any scotch left?"

McCoy pivoted, shoulder still to the doorframe, to look back into the dining room. "Sally left us a little. Nightcap?"

Regan nodded, but McCoy didn't move. "Serena said you had news?"

It had gone from her head, pushed out by thoughts of _different times_ and _think about what's going to happen to you_.

About Sally's choices.

_And mine._

_Been here before, Regan._ Getting twisted around and away from where her priorities _should_ be by feelings she _shouldn't_ have.

Watching McCoy walk out of the bar with Keri Dyson, not having his back like a partner should …

_Would've thought you'd learnt that lesson with Marco._

"News, yeah," she said. "Good news. Serena and Curtis found your doorman. He helped Keri carry you inside, dumped you on the bed. Called Margolis. _And walked Keri out._ "

McCoy let his breath out, a long sigh. "So."

"Water-tight alibi," Regan said softly.

"You'd think Margolis might have mentioned it," McCoy said with a little irritation.

"I think he kind of did," Regan said. "On Saturday. He said something about _ex-altar boys_ and _hair-shirts_. I thought he meant – well, I had the case on the brain. Except he didn't know anything about that, did he? He thought you were atoning for a bender."

McCoy snorted. "He should know the hangover's atonement enough."

"We've got him now, his testimony. And the doorman. We've got them," Regan said. She tried to put confidence in her voice. _Don't let your own nerves spook your client._ "The jury will have to find 'not guilty'."

McCoy did turn away then, crossing the little distance to the dining room table and picking up the scotch bottle as Regan followed him. "If the jury believes them. If they don't believe Keri Dyson."

Regan folded her arms. "Cutter won't even put her on the stand. He _knows_ she's lying."

McCoy splashed scotch into two glasses and held one out to her. "Then you won't get the chance to let the _jury_ know she's lying."

"Then _I'll_ call her." Regan took the glass.

"And if the judge doesn't rule her adverse?" McCoy countered. "You're not going to be able to get those files in, in a straight examination."

"The doorman, the doctor …" Regan trailed off.

McCoy sipped his scotch, and then wandered towards the living room. "And if the jury decides they don't like them? Juries are odd and unpredictable creatures."

Regan followed him. "You mean, you don't think I'll be able to sell the case." She sank onto the couch and curled her feet under her. "Don't beat around the bush, Jack. I'm a big girl."

McCoy sat as well, not as far away from her as the size of the couch would have allowed. "Your client hasn't done you any favors."

"Yeah, well," Regan said, "I haven't done him any either."

McCoy glanced at her. "I wouldn't say that."

Regan stared into her glass. "I didn't have your back, Jack. I should've … done _something_. At the bar. I could feel … something was _off._ But …" She shrugged. "I thought it was just me. Being selfish." She tapped her finger on the glass, watching the reflected light shiver with movement, and then shot McCoy a wry, sideways smile. "Romance fucks everything up.

" _Romance_ , eh?' McCoy said.

Regan felt herself blush. "You know what I mean."

"I know you mean you've stopped pretending that _friendship_ – "

"Look," Regan said, holding her hands up, "I admit, I've got a – a little _crush_ – on you. Okay? But I'll get over it."

McCoy turned his glass between his hands, slowly. "So you've decided you _want_ to get over it? Arthur scare you that much?"

"He _would_ sack me, Jack."

"And you don't want to make the mistake Sally did," McCoy said, finishing his scotch in one long swallow. " _You're_ going to choose your career."

"Jesus," Regan snapped on a flare of anger she would have thought she was too tired to feel. "If I'd chosen my career I've been sitting where Cut-throat Cutter was today, for fuck's sake! I _chose_ you. But – "

He turned more fully towards her, gaze steady, the same keen inquiry he used on witnesses on the stand. "But?"

"I don't choose some silly fling we'll both get over." Regan tossed back the last of her drink and set the glass down on the coffee table harder than she'd meant to. "You and me, Jack, we're partners. We have each other's backs, or we should. We can't screw that up."

"Who says it would be a silly fling?" McCoy said, and Regan thought that he sounded like he was smiling.

"You have a track record, Jack," Regan said. _And so do I._

She heard him move a little, and then felt him closer, not touching her but close enough to sense the heat of his body. "Who says it would screw it up?"

"Me." Regan shrugged. "Experience. The way it is. It already has."

"I could make the argument that I'd never have left with – "

"Oh, for the love of god, Jack, just for once don't 'make the argument'!" Regan dropped her head to her hands. "Please."

McCoy put his hand on her back. "I _am_ a lawyer," he said, and Regan knew it was about as close to an apology as she was likely to get.

"I'm just tired," she said, about as close to an apology as she was likely to give. "It's been a hell of a week. And next week's going to be – Jesus, Jack, I've got to get Cutter to call Keri, you're right, if I don't – " Panic swept over her out of nowhere. "If I make a mess of the cross, there won't be any other way – "

"Regan, come on now," McCoy said. He set his own glass down and took hold of her arm. "Regan."

_Can't breathe, can't breathe, have to help him, can't – can't –_

"Take it easy," McCoy said, turning her to face him. She saw his frown a long way off down a dim corridor that was getting darker. "Regan?"

"I'm – " Her teeth chattered. "I – "

McCoy put his hands on either side of her face, leaned forward, and kissed her.

The distant gunfire of memory was drowned out by the thunder of her own pulse. As his lips moved warm and firm against hers, the kiss neither teasing nor demanding, Regan felt her shivers ease and then cease as warmth stirred through her veins. McCoy's arms went around her and she leaned into him, letting herself forget for a moment all the very good reasons this was a very bad idea.

There were so many things she could not have and was doing her best not to want, but this moment, _one moment, that's a reasonable, moderate request to make of the universe._

_One moment._

_The one after it._

And then she put her hand flat on McCoy's chest and pulled away a little.

_That's all._

* * *

 

.oOo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An 'adverse' or 'hostile' witness is one the judge has ruled is opposed to the case of the lawyer who has subpoenaed them to appear. This allows that lawyer to ask the kind of questions usually only allowed in cross-examination. The question "Permission to treat this witness as hostile?" is a request for such a judicial ruling.


	33. Ethical Violations

"This is all kinds of a bad idea, Jack," Regan said.

"Silly flings?" McCoy said, smiling, with what looked to Regan like a trace of smugness. "Screwing things up?"

He tried to draw her back to him. Regan let him, but dodged his kiss, turning her head to rest on his shoulder instead. "That. Not to mention DR 5 -111."

McCoy's arms went around her and he gathered her more comfortably against him, one hand stroking her hair. "Not applicable here."

"Thanks _very_ much," Regan said dryly. "I'm glad to know I'm so resistible."

She felt, rather than heard, him laugh. "There are those prosecutorial instincts I knew you had. You know that's not what I mean."

"In this case, I'm the one bound by the Code, anyway."

"Still doesn't apply," McCoy said. "A predating consensual relationship –"

"Predating?" Regan said.

"It could certainly be argued," McCoy said. "Nor do I feel particularly _coerced_."

"We're not all as used to tap-dancing in front of the Ethics Board as you are, Jack," Regan said.

McCoy snorted. "I could be going to jail Monday and you're worried about the ethics board _now_?" he said. "I don't recall you being so concerned on Thursday."

"I won't let them send you to jail," Regan said.

His hands tightened on her for a moment. "You might not be able to help it. If you can't crack Keri on the stand, it'll come down to the jury – and juries are unpredictable." He ran his hand over her back. "Someone wins, someone loses. That's the rules. If it's us this time, it's not down to you. You play the hand you're dealt."

"You're very sanguine for a man talking about going to jail," Regan said.

"I'm putting up a brave front," McCoy said, and she thought he was only half joking. "Can't have my lawyer getting an attack of nerves in court. Besides, I've been here before, in a way. Diana Hawthorne."

"Claire Kincaid got you out of that one, you said."

McCoy's voice was quiet. "She did."

_And I_ _'_ _m not Claire Kincaid._

"I won't let them send you to jail," she said. "If they convict, we'll appeal, get bail continued."

"It's harder to get bail pending an appeal," McCoy said. "Cutter will argue that I'm a greater risk of flight."

She thought about that. "If the worst comes to the worst, I'll break you out of the van. We can go on the lam."

She felt him laugh, and he ran his fingers through her hair. "I believe you would, too. A hundred and fifty years ago, you'd have been robbing stagecoaches – or guarding them."

"I can't ride a horse."

"A hundred and fifty years ago, you would have been able to," McCoy said.

"Oh, sure. And I would have had six-guns and a hat and shoot-outs in main street too, I guess."

"Uh-huh," McCoy said a little hoarsely.

She tilted her head to look up at him, then glanced downwards. A smile quirked her lips. "You kinda like that idea, don't you? Maybe I'd better make sure I buy a cowboy hat and boots before I break you out of that prison van."

"Jesus!" McCoy groaned. "Maybe you better keep thoughts like that to yourself for a while. I'm only human."

"I'll be good," Regan said, and laughed as McCoy pulled a face of theatrical disappointment. She settled her head back on his shoulder. "You'll get over it. _I_ _'_ _ll_ get over it."

She heard him draw breath to speak, and then let it out quietly, his hand running gently over her hair. "Partners," he said after a moment. "You never doubted me. You didn't just believe I was innocent. You _knew_ it."

"That's what partners do, Jack," Regan said. "Believe in you when you can't believe in yourself."

"More lessons from Bill Markham?" McCoy asked.

"There were a lot of things he didn't know how to teach," Regan said quietly. "But _that_ … having the back of the person who has your back, _that_ he knew how to teach me. Your partner breaks down at night on a bad road, you drive out and find him. He's going off a cliff, you grab his hand."

"Or _her_ hand," McCoy said.

"All cops were _he_ in those days." She stifled a yawn. "I should go to bed. A lot of prep to do tomorrow."

"You should." McCoy didn't loosen his embrace.

Regan didn't pull away.

* * *

 

.oOo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "DR 5-111" is that part of the 'Code of Professional Responsibility' which covers sexual relations with clients. As before, I've taken some liberties with the wording as quoted by the characters, while trying to remain true to the intent of the Code.


	34. Two Of A Kind

_Abbie Carmichael_ _'_ _s Townhouse_

_7 pm Sunday May 13_ _th_ _2007_

Regan woke with a crick in her neck, cramped with cold. She reached out blindly to yank the blanket back over her and her fingers touched … _leather_?

She opened her eyes. _Oh. Right. Living room. Couch._

_Jack._

On cue, the body against hers stirred slightly. Regan opened her eyes, scrambling with sleepy wits to find a quip, a joke, something – _anything_ – to defuse what she feared and hoped in equal measure to see in his face.

He was asleep.

Regan told herself she was relieved, and began to carefully disentangle herself, doing her best not to wake him. Still, she could not avoid disturbing him a little. He murmured in his sleep, and as she edged away from him he turned, gathering her close to him again.

_I wonder who he_ _ **is**_ _dreaming about,_ she amended. The question hurt, a keen little pain below her ribs that she tried to ignore, a pain she had no right to feel. She had no right to wonder which woman or women inhabited McCoy's erotic reveries, and certainly no right to resent them.

She covered his hand with hers, ready to gently push him away, and he sighed in his sleep, a gentle exhalation of pleasure, and said her name.

As he drew her closer still, Regan was shocked into immobility. _He_ _'_ _s dreaming of me._

She had figured she was just another McCoy conquest, tempting only by convenient proximity. Whatever her own feelings – and she had hoped to keep them from deepening – there was no point losing what they had for what would never be more than a diverting fling for McCoy. How could it be more? His history gave ample evidence that he was hardly prone to deep or long-lasting relationships.

_But he dreams of me_.

_He could dream of any woman in the world._

_But he dreams of_ _**me** _ _._

Regan took a shallow breath and put the thought aside, and the dizzying temptation to follow it into daydreams of a future when …

_No._

She had a case to win.

* * *

 

.oOo.


	35. Statute of Limitations

_Office of ADA Mike Cutter_

_6_ _th_ _Floor, One Hogan Place_

_4 pm Sunday May 13_ _th_ _2007_

* * *

"Excuse me, Mr. Cutter," Bill Fitzgerald said.

Cutter looked up from the draft of his closing statement. "What is it, Bill?"

"I just had – I'm down in the Complaints Room today – and I just had an odd call."

Cutter put his pen down. "What kind of odd call?"

"It was from a guy who didn't want to give his name." Fitzgerald took a step forward, hesitating. "But he asked me –"

"Spit it out," Cutter said impatiently.

"About the statute of limitations on blackmail."

"So?" Cutter asked.

"So when I told him what the limits were for misdemeanors and felonies, he said that he'd heard it was different if you didn't know there'd been a crime. That he'd just found out that this woman who had accused him of assaulting her had shown him false medical charts as 'proof' to blackmail him into giving her a promotion. That he hadn't known it was a fake because he couldn't remember anything that had happened, but now a private detective had turned up with proof and he wanted to know what would happen if he brought charges."

Cutter sat very still. "What did you tell him?" he asked at last, hoping his voice sounded conversational.

"I went through the equitable tolling principles and the rest of it," Fitzgerald said. "But that's not why – "

"Mr. Fitzgerald," Cutter said. "Let me just stop you there before you get into the kind of unwarranted speculation that might cause both of us a problem."

Fitzgerald stopped, and swallowed. "Yes, Mr. Cutter," he said.

"I'm glad to hear that you gave the caller in this completely unrelated matter the correct legal advice."

Fitzgerald swallowed hard again, opened his mouth and then closed it. "Yes, Mr. Cutter."

"You should probably be getting back to your desk."

"Yes, Mr. Cutter."

Cutter waited until the door had closed behind Fitzgerald before he dropped his head to his hand. "Shit, shit, _shit_."

_This_ was what Markham had. _This_ was why Keri Dyson was stonewalling them on the medical records.

And _this_ was why he could under absolutely no circumstances put her on the stand.

He got to his feet and strode to the door. "Connie. _Connie!_ "

Her head popped up over the wall of her cubicle. "Yeah?"

"Get down to that fucking hospital and _tear the place_ apart if you have to. I don't give a shit what they tell you about doctor-patient confidentiality. Take some blues and find probable cause to arrest _every damn person_ who gets in your way until you get your hands on those records."

Connie hesitated. "Mike … "

"Just fucking _do it_ , Connie, Christ, this case is coming apart under me like a Taiwanese bicycle, will you _get on the fucking team!_ "

She didn't move. "Maybe the case is coming apart because there isn't a case in the first place."

" _Shit_ , Connie!"

She folded her arms. "Don't tell me you're not thinking the same thing."

He took a step toward her. "Don't _you_ tell me what I'm thinking! I'm thinking that I have a guilty man on trial who is going to walk because my witness didn't trust the system to get it right without her salting the meat!"

"That's what you _want_ to be thinking," Connie snapped back. "But you're too good a lawyer and too smart a man to fall for it."

"Oh, _finally_ , a compliment." He reached her cubicle and grasped the barrier with both hands. "Listen, Connie, we're _in_ this now. What happens if we don't get a conviction? Jack McCoy will still be damaged goods just by the charges. Arthur Branch will look like a vindictive SOB for pushing the trial. Nobody will know that McCoy was the one who forced Arthur's hand and nobody will care that he was acquitted."

"What does that have to do with the law? With justice? With our _jobs_?"

"Ask me that when Arthur loses the next election and McCoy is losing cases in front of jurors who think that smoke only ever comes from fire." He gave the barrier a little shake, and her desk shifted, pens rattling in their caddy. "You want to see this office come apart? You want to see what the criminal justice system looks like when it does? Keep undermining me, Connie, and _you will_ and then we can have a chat about _justice_ and _the law_ and _our jobs_."

Connie leaned forward, right into his face. "Nothing will take this office apart as fast as convicting an innocent man because of – "

Cutter threw up his hands. " _Jesus fucking Christ_ , Connie, he's _not innocent_. He was ready to plead. Whatever happened that night, _Jack McCoy_ himself thinks he ought to go to jail, and even if I don't know _exactly_ why, in this case I think I'll respect his judgment." He ran his fingers through his hair. "The only people who think he belongs back on the tenth floor are the women he's – "

" _Watch it_ ," Connie snapped.

" _Charmed_ , I was going to say." He sighed. "Now, are you going to start pulling in harness? Or do I have to go down to the hospital myself?"

Connie hesitated long enough for Cutter to think she was going to refuse. Then she sighed, and grabbed her coat and bag. "I'll go."

He eyed her. "So you can turn over anything exculpatory to Regan Markham before you show it to me?"

"Among other reasons," Connie said calmly. She turned on her heel and headed for the elevators, then stopped, and turned back. "Mike."

"Yeah?"

"You want to know why Jack thinks he ought to be in jail? Why don't you _ask him_."

* * *

 

.oOo.


	36. Second Dress

_Supreme Court Building_

_4.15 pm Sunday May 13_ _th_ _2007_

* * *

"Ms Dyson." Regan paused, just a beat, the way McCoy always did when he used a witness's name, to get that tiny, reflexive nod or turn of the head that most people gave instinctively when their name was said, that minute gesture of agreement that brought the witness one step further along the road to co-operation each time it happened. "On the night of – "

"Stop," McCoy said. "You've got your shoulder to the jury, Regan. Turn towards them – no, not that far. Between the witness and the jury. There."

Regan looked down at her feet and tried to memorize their direction. "Okay." She took a deep breath and started again. "Ms Dyson." _Pause_. "On the night in question, you and Mr. McCoy traveled from the _Lord Roberts_ to his apartment by taxi, is that correct?"

They had the same 'Keri Dyson' as last time, Susan Kawoski. The young actress nodded. "Yes."

"And Mr. McCoy seemed somewhat intoxicated?"

"Yes."

"What do you mean by – "

"Stop," McCoy said again. "Start that question with 'Help me out here'. It'll – "

"Oh, come on, Jack," Serena said from the prosecutor's table. "Regan's your lawyer, not your ventriloquist's dummy."

McCoy ignored her. "Not _too_ sarcastically," he told Regan. "Don't get the jury off-side. You want them to like you, and wonder why _you_ don't like _her_."

"Because she's the defendant's lawyer and Keri is a prosecution witness," Serena said. "I think they'll get that, Jack."

Regan took a deep breath. "Help me out here, Ms. Dyson. What is 'somewhat' intoxic- "

"Stop," McCoy said again.

A sharp _bang_ made Regan jump, and she turned to look up at the bench to see Nora with the gavel in her hand. "I think it's time for a ten minute recess, counselors."

"We don't have time to waste, Nora," McCoy snapped. "We _have_ to get this right by tomorrow morning."

_He means,_ _ **I**_ _have to get this right by tomorrow morning_ , Regan thought exhaustedly. They had been at it all day, her opening address, her cross-examination, McCoy scrutinizing every gesture, every phrase and intonation.

It didn't help her feel any more ready to face the next day, didn't make her feel any more like Jack McCoy.

_More like a beggar in Jack McCoy_ _'_ _s cast-off clothes._

Nora pulled off her glasses. "You might not want a recess," she said. "But I _need_ one. Too much coffee. Ten minutes, everyone."

Susan Kawoski slipped out of the stand as Serena turned around to say something to Danielle in a low voice. Regan let her shoulders slump from the confident stance she'd been forcing herself to maintain, and leaned against the jury box.

McCoy sighed. "Okay," he said. "We'll use the time to go over your opening again. Try and remember to make eye contact with the jurors this time, and – "

"Conversational tone, I know," Regan said. She stood up straight again, turned to what she _thought_ was the right angle. "Ladies and gentlemen of the jury. You've heard the prosecution throw a lot of mud at Jack McCoy over the past few days of this trial. I can understand why Mr. Cutter has chosen that particular strategy."

" _Move_ ," McCoy reminded her quietly.

Regan lost her train of thought, recovered it, and began to pace slowly along the front of the jury box. "He doesn't have a case. And all lawyers know that when you can't make a case, you throw as much mud as you can. Mud sticks. Mud gets in the jury's face, in their eyes, and obscures their view of the facts. But it's your job, ladies and gentlemen, to look at the facts, no matter what you might think about the prosecution's innuendo. So let's look at the facts, the facts already proven and the facts I _will_ prove to you over the rest of this trial."

"Hands," McCoy said, and Regan held up her right hand, raising one finger for each point she made. "Fact. Mr. McCoy is not known as a lightweight when it comes to liquor, but after just a couple of drinks with Ms Dyson, he became, apparently, noticeably intoxicated. Intoxicated enough to lose consciousness during the short taxi ride to his home. Intoxicated enough to need to be carried into his apartment by his doorman. Fact. This young man was so concerned by Mr. McCoy's persistent stupor that he called Mr. McCoy's personal physician, Dr Margolis, and remained with Mr. McCoy until the doctor arrived. Fact. Keri Dyson left the apartment at that time, uninjured. Fact, Dr Margolis was also concerned enough about Mr. McCoy's condition to remain with his patient throughout much of the rest of the night. And fact, Mr. McCoy was not alone with Keri Dyson at all, not for one minute, from the time they got into the cab – and she was uninjured – until the next day, well after the time given on her medical report."

McCoy's voice made her jump a little. "Eyes."

She paused, looking along the jury box, catching and holding the gazes of the imaginary jurors one by one as she spoke. "Ladies and gentlemen, by the time this trial ends you will have the facts before you to prove beyond any doubt that Mr. McCoy could not possibly have committed the crime he has been charged with. These are the facts before you, and they compel you to return a verdict of not guilty."

When she turned back to the bar table, McCoy gave her a grudging nod. "Not bad," he said. "You'll do better with more practice, but not bad." Regan had time for one breath of relief before he tore a page off the legal pad in front of him. "I made some notes. When you – "

The chirping sound of her phone came as a blessed reprieve. "Sec," Regan said, pulling it from her pocket.

"Saved by the bell," Danielle said drily. As Regan lifted the phone to her ear she caught Danielle's next words despite the other woman lowering her voice. "Ease up on her, Jack, nerves will just make her – "

"This is Regan," Regan said into the phone, not wanting to hear the next word out of Danielle's mouth, knowing in her gut it was going to be ' _worse_ _'_ _._

"Ms. Markham." Mike Cutter's voice was smooth and self-possessed, sounding as usual as if he had a private joke he wasn't about to let anyone else in on. _Smug son-of-a-bitch_. "I hope I haven't caught you at a bad time."

Regan made her own voice neutral, impersonal, the same voice she would have used to say _Please step out of the vehicle, sir_ back in her days in Highway. "No, Mr. Cutter. What's this regarding?"

The _Mr. Cutter_ caught the attention of the others and their conversation stopped, heads turning towards her. Even Nora stood still on her way back to the bench.

"I'd like to discuss it in person," Cutter said. "Can you come to my office? And Mr. McCoy?"

_A plea_ , Regan thought instantly. _He wants to discuss a plea_. "When?"

"Now. Or as soon as possible."

Regan couldn't suppress a grin, saw McCoy's expression lighten as he caught it. _Cut-throat Cutter_ _ **really**_ _wants a deal. He must have accepted his case is weaker than a damp paper bag._ "I'll have to check with my client, Mr. Cutter, and let you know what time is convenient."

"I'll be here," Cutter said.

Regan cut the call, and let out a gusty sigh of relief. "Cutter wants to see us," she told McCoy. "I'm guessing he's got a plea on offer."

"Or he wants to drop the charges," Serena said.

_Let it be that_ , Regan thought with a pang of hope so keen it hurt. _Let it be that._

She was surprised to see McCoy shake his head. "I hope not."

"Why the hell not?" Regan asked. "I mean, come on, Jack, I appreciate the vote of confidence but everyone here knows I'm not going to set the world on fire in court tomorrow. You said yourself that juries are unpredictable."

"It'll look like a fix," Nora said. "Without a _not guilty_ verdict from a jury, there's always going to be people who think it was a fix."

* * *

 

.oOo.


	37. Case Conference

_Office of ADA Mike Cutter_

_6_ _th_ _Floor, One Hogan Place_

_7 pm Sunday May 13_ _th_ _2007_

* * *

"I hope you haven't wasted my time in the mistaken belief I'm interested in a plea," McCoy said the second he walked through the door into Mike Cutter's office. Without waiting for an invitation, he dropped into the visitor's chair as casually as if he were EADA McCoy there to read the riot act or hand out an attaboy to a bureau chief.

Regan gave Cutter a non-committal nod of greeting and found herself a chair. McCoy clearly thought the old saw about _lawyers representing themselves having fools for clients_ applied in the courtroom but not case conferences. _Fine_. One-on-one with Mike Cutter wasn't a place she much wanted to be anyway.

"Now, Jack, I wouldn't waste your time when I know how busy you must be trying to make bricks without straw for tomorrow morning," Cutter said.

"That's what Emil Skoda would call 'projection'," McCoy said. He stretched out his legs and leaned back in the chair, giving Cutter a steady look, entirely at his ease. "So what _do_ you want?"

Cutter mimicked McCoy's pose, not quite catching the air of confidence but doing pretty well, Regan thought _, for a man who must know by now that his case is built on three parts air and one part quicksand._ "Cards on the table time, Jack."

"I'm not required to give you a preview of my defense."

"I'm not asking you to, Jack. Just stop and think for a minute. We're all of us jammed up in this and right now, I can't see a way for anybody to come out without losing a hell of a lot of paint. I'm trying to figure out a way to do the right thing here and I'd like you to help me."

"Jack …" Regan put a little warning in her voice. Cutter was a damn good snake-oil salesman and he almost had _her_ believing him. _Don_ _'_ _t fall for his bullshit_ , _Jack_.

"Does that work often?" McCoy asked, nothing in his voice but professional curiosity.

Cutter let out a breath and then smiled, looking a little embarrassed, and Regan was surprised to find herself liking him for a second. _Half a second, anyway._ _And_ _'_ _like' might be a little strong._ "Sometimes."

"Let me guess," McCoy said. "You're going to admit your case isn't as strong as you hoped, then tell me you still have a lot of confidence in the jury's sympathy. Point out how I can't be _sure_ of an acquittal."

"Yeah, that's about it," Cutter said.

"Then we'll get on to the damage the case is doing my reputation and by extension, the office. How a conviction will pull the ambulance chasers and celebrity lawyers out of the woodwork to re-litigate every one of my old cases with even a tiny crack for their fingernails. How that will tie up the office for months, years, even, not to mention blowback down the line in diminished respect for the system."

"That _is_ all true," Cutter said.

"You should have thought of that before you decided to paint me as a drunken philanderer in open court in a case based on forged documents and a witness you can't put on the stand without running foul of EC 7-26."

"No, Jack," Cutter leaned forward, resting his elbows on his desk. " _You_ should have thought of that before you rushed the office into a prosecution against you. Let's not forget we're at this clambake at _your_ invitation. So why don't you give the righteous indignation a rest for ten minutes and let's figure out what's what."

McCoy was still a long minute. "What do you want, Mike? Why are we here?"

"I want you to explain to me why, if my case is so weak and you're so confident of an acquittal, you were ready and eager to plead guilty. Hell, Jack, the complaint is in _your_ handwriting, even if Ms. _Markham_ here signed it." Cutter spread his hands. "Help me out here, Jack. Explain to me how that's the behavior of an innocent man."

"Good luck getting _that_ in front of the jury," McCoy said. He was apparently unmoved by Cutter's plea but from where she sat, Regan could see a muscle jumping high up in his cheek.

_Fuck me_ , she thought. _Two sentences would turn Cutter into an ally._ _"_ _My father beat women. For a few days there, I thought it was hereditary."_

Two sentences McCoy hadn't even brought himself to say aloud to _her_ , even though she'd as good as told him she knew. Two sentences he'd never say to Mike Cutter, and two sentences she couldn't say either without breaching lawyer-client confidentiality.

_Not to mention friend-friend_ _confidentiality_.

"Jack … " Cutter said cajolingly. Regan could see he was going for an _we_ _'_ _re-all-ADAs-in-this-together_ tone. _Won_ _'_ _t work_.

Right this second, Jack McCoy wasn't in anything _together._

He got up, face set. "So you were wasting my time, after all."

"Oh, come on, Jack. We might be on opposite sides of the aisle right now but you've been this side of the desk for long enough to know I'm not the bad guy." Cutter was standing too, following McCoy toward the door. "Ask yourself what you would have done in my shoes. What you'd do now. Jack!"

McCoy was gone.

" _Shit_ ," Cutter said, turning back to Regan, raking one hand through his hair. "Stubborn S.O.B."

"You can't blame him for not wanting to dig you out of your own hole," Regan pointed out as she stood up.

" _His_ hole, Ms. Markham, as well you know."

"You didn't have to push him into it quite so hard, though, did you?" Regan said. He took a step toward the door, but Cutter didn't move to let her past. "Every trick in the book and a few more that would melt the pen and burn the pages if you tried to write them down."

"You think I went too hard?" Cutter asked. "I went exactly as hard as I would with _any_ defendant and you don't know Jack McCoy all that well if you think he's not prepared to go as hard as necessary to get a conviction. I'm presenting my strongest possible case to the jury _and that_ _'_ _s my job_."

Another step brought her face to face with him. "What about justice?"

Cutter shrugged. "As a successful prosecutor once said to me, justice is the byproduct of winning."

"Don't you quote Jack McCoy at me!" Regan snapped, poking him hard in the chest with her finger. "Jack would _never_ ignore exculpatory evidence – "

Cutter didn't step back. "If you read the complaints about him to the ethics board, you'll know he's not only ignored it, he's suppressed it."

"If you're talking about Andrew Dillard, that _wasn_ _'_ _t_ Jack, and you know it." _Claire Kincaid proved it in open court._ "And the lawyer who _was_ responsible did six months and lost her license."

"It wasn't just Andrew Dillard though, was it, Ms. Markham?" Cutter said. "If Jack McCoy can send a witness _out of the country_ to get them away from the defense and walk, I'm pretty sure _I_ _'_ _m_ still on the right side of the line."

"If you can find me an example where Jack McCoy found out that the complainant and only witness was a serial liar with a history of forgery and false complaints fitting exactly the pattern of the charges and _went ahead_ with the case, then fine, walk back in that courtroom and do your best to ruin the life of a man _you know damn well_ is _innocent_." Regan realized she had a fistful of Cutter's shirtfront and released him. "But I bet you won't find one, Mr. Cutter. So the question you really need to answer is not, 'what's the best way to win this case'. It's – do you want Jack McCoy's job, Mr. Cutter? Or do you want to _deserve_ it?"

* * *

 

.oOo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> n "Under the Influence" McCoy encourages the airline employer of a flight attendant witness whose testimony would weaken the prosecution case to assign her to an international route so she is out of reach of the defense.
> 
> In "Competence", McCoy withholds turning over the statement of a witness to the defense. The statement would have aided the defense's case by showing strong motive to another individual for the crime, casting a reasonable doubt.
> 
> In "Trophy", Andrew Dillard is the man who was wrongly convicted after Diana Hawthorne suppressed evidence so McCoy could get a conviction.


	38. Confidentiality

They stared at each other for a moment. Cutter was only a little taller than Regan, and she held his gaze with her best _Back off, buddy_ cop glare.

He wasn't intimidated. Regan had to give him points for that. "The day I start prosecuting cases differently because of who the _accused_ is will be the day I stop _deserving_ Jack McCoy's job, Ms. Markham."

Regan shook her head. "This is – "

"This is _different_ , right? This is _special_. Ms. Markham, that's your personal involvement speaking. _Every_ defendant, and their family, and their friends, thinks they're _different_. _You_ know that."

She _did_ know that, and saw from Cutter's expression that he'd caught her making the realization.

He stepped past her, turning the visitor's chair towards her. "So you tell _me_ how else I should have played it, _absent_ your personal loyalties. Which are admirable, by the way, don't get me wrong."

Regan hesitated, then took the indicated seat. "Admirable, but inconvenient to you at the moment?"

Cutter smiled a little as he settled himself in his own chair. "Inconvenient to us all, if they're going to get in the way of working this out."

"Not the only inconvenient thing in this office right now," Regan said.

"You mean me?"

Regan leaned forward a little. "I mean your _ego_ , Mr. Cutter. I'll give you a pass on playing hardball – " Cutter opened his mouth to speak and she held up one finger. " _For now_. But Jesus, you were in the courtroom. I don't have to give you a preview of the defense case for you to guess how this is going to play out tomorrow and you wouldn't have asked us here tonight if you didn't have at least a solid suspicion that it's not just a good defense, it's the _truth_. If you want to 'work this out', you're holding all the cards you need to do that, aren't you? Except you're still looking for a way to be the winner. Aren't you?"

"You don't get a deal insulting the opposition, Ms. Markham," Cutter said.

"If you're interested in a deal, Mr. Cutter, you're the only one in this room who is."

"What if it came with no time?" Cutter said, _almost_ casually.

_Jesus_. McCoy's words about the unpredictability of juries came back full force. _No time – an actual, real life, get-out-of-jail-free card._

But it wouldn't be _free_. It would come at the price of a conviction, McCoy losing his job and losing his license. Regan knew she didn't need to ask Jack what his answer would be. "No."

"You have a lot of confidence," Cutter said, a little bit amused, _the way a Great Dane is amused when a Pekinese growls at it._

"I have an innocent client," Regan shot back.

Cutter leaned forward again, looking at her hard. "No, Ms. Markham. You don't. I'm willing to admit I'm not so sure what Jack McCoy did that night. But he did do something, didn't he? To make him ready to take a plea. He's guilty of _something_."

"It's got nothing to do with Keri Dyson," Regan said. "I swear on my life, Mr. Cutter. Or anything else this office would consider prosecuting."

Cutter sat back, flipped a file on his desk open, flipped it closed. "I wish your oath on your life was something I could take into consideration, Ms. Markham, I really do. But you're going to have to give me more than that."

"I can't," Regan said.

"Confidentiality."

"Yeah."

He flipped the file open again. Then closed. Then open. "You might get your acquittal, Ms. Markham. You might not. But even if you do, _reasonable doubt_ isn't going to clear Jack's name in the court of public opinion. You need a big, thumping victory to do that, and you won't get it picking holes in my case."

"I know," Regan said.

"If what you suspect about Ms. Dyson is _true_ , you need to get her to admit it on the stand," Cutter said. "In my professional opinion."

"Are you going to call her?"

"Would you? In my position?"

"No," Regan said quietly. "I draw the line at suborning perjury."

"You're not the only one," Cutter said. "Will you call her?"

"It seems like you think I have no choice," Regan said carefully.

"Big call," Cutter said. He flipped the file open again, then closed, and Regan wanted to lean across the desk and rip it away from him. "What if the judge doesn't rule her adverse?"

"I'll cross that bridge when the time comes," Regan said.

"Of course, that wouldn't be an issue if she was a _prosecution_ witness," Cutter said, very casually.

Regan sat very still. _Let him say it. Let him talk_ _ **himself**_ _into it._

"I'd have to have a pretty persuasive reason to call her, though. Given the circumstances. I'd have to be pretty sure it was serving the interests of justice, and the office." He looked up then, and Regan caught a glint of humor in his gaze. "Since it certainly wouldn't be serving the interests of my career."

"It would be," Regan said quietly. "Serving the interests of justice."

" _Persuade_ me," Cutter said, pushing the file aside, leaning forward again, gaze intent. "Tell me something, Ms. Markham, _anything_."

Regan looked down at her hands, and shook her head. _Some things – you only have the right to talk about if_ _ **you**_ ** _'_** ** _re_** _the one they happened to._

"Ms. Markham?" Cutter pressed.

_It_ _'_ _s Jack's decision. The only story you can choose to tell is –_

_Is your own._

"When I was growing up," Regan said quietly, "My dad – he used to drink." Cutter made a noise, impatience perhaps, and Regan raised her hand. _Wait. There_ _'_ _s a point._ "More than was good for him. More than was good for the family. And I used to think that maybe I could find a way to make him stop. But I couldn't. And then I – well, I left. I got a ticket out."

Cutter was still now, listening. Regan paused, getting the words straight in her head, and he gave her that time. Regan found herself noticing that, _noting_ it, with the part of her that McCoy had trained to _never stop thinking like a lawyer._

A very small part of her, right this moment. This wasn't a story she'd ever chose to tell. But she _had_ to get past Cutter's conviction that McCoy's sense of guilt meant he was _guilty_ , and this was what she had.

_Your partner needs something, you don_ _'_ _t ask what it's going to cost._

_And I told Jack I_ _'_ _d meet any cheque he needed to write._

She took a deep breath. "And a few years after that, he was driving home one night, he'd been drinking, too much to drive, and I guess he knew it because he stopped at an all-night truckstop and filled up on black coffee. But it doesn't really work, you know, coffee, doesn't sober you up in any way that counts, and he lost control of the car and crossed into the oncoming traffic and – that was it."

"I'm sorry," Cutter said. It was what people said, Regan knew. _I_ _'_ _m sorry_ , as routine and meaningless as _How are you?_ She looked up to meet Cutter's gaze and thought that perhaps it wasn't entirely meaningless, this time.

She looked at him, this man who wasn't a friend, this lawyer who was her profoundest adversary. This man she'd hated and despised for long hours in the courtroom, _and feared, too_.

And for Jack McCoy, she turned herself inside out in front of him. "And I thought, I _still_ think, what if I hadn't left? What if I'd been at home, saying, don't go out tonight, Dad? What if I'd been there, pushing him to go to AA, telling him that he needed to stop?"

"Ms. Markham," Cutter said, not ungently. "What does that have to do with Jack McCoy?"

"Sometimes the things that happen in your family when you're young leave their marks on you," Regan said. "Sometimes you can hold yourself responsible for something that isn't your fault."

* * *

 

.oOo.


	39. Expert Witness

_Abbie Carmichael_ _'_ _s Townhouse_

 _8 pm Sunday May 13_ _th_ _2007_

* * *

Abbie came out of the kitchen drying her hands with a tea-towel as McCoy closed the front door behind him. "How'd it go?"

"Regan didn't tell you?"

"She's not back." Which meant Regan had stayed more than a few minutes in Cutter's office after McCoy had walked out, because he'd walked home.

He'd told himself he wanted to clear his head and calm down before inflicting his foul mood on anyone, especially the women who had proved themselves these past week to be loyaler friends than he could ever deserve. That was partly true. He didn't let himself look directly at the rest of the truth, the fact that there might not be all that many evening walks left to him for many years to come.

He hoped Regan wouldn't let Cutter talk her into anything, or trap her into saying something she shouldn't about the defense case. Or worse — talk her into sharing confidences she had no right to reveal.

The thought must have showed on his face, because Abbie frowned. "You two fighting again?"

McCoy shook his head, and moved towards the kitchen. "Cutter called. Wanted to talk. He must have had something more interesting to say after I left than before, if Regan's not back yet." The sink was full of suds and dishes and McCoy began to roll up his sleeves. "You should get a dishwasher, Abs. Babies make more dirty dishes than you can imagine."

"I have a dishwasher." She thumped the door of the appliance with her heel. "But those plates were a gift from Tom's grandma and I don't trust it with them. Did Cutter want to deal?"

"Maybe. I didn't stay long enough to let him tap-dance all the way there." He rinsed the first plate and Abbie took it from him and began to dry it. "He knows his case is weak. Tried to run a let's-help-each-other-out play."

Abbie snorted. "As if you'd fall for that. Or had any reason to."

McCoy shrugged. "He's a good prosecutor. Better than I knew. He's got the killer instinct and the nose for guilt."

"But you're _not_ guilty."

"Of the charges." McCoy handed her the last plate and pulled the plug, watching the water swirl away down the drain. "But you have to admit, I certainly acted like a guilty man for a while there. Cutter thinks he's on to something. He's just not sure he can get there on his own before the end of the trial."

"And is he?" Abbie stacked the plates together so gently they didn't make a sound. "On to something?"

"Not what he thinks, and not where he's looking. And no, Abbie, I don't want to talk about it."

"Well, that's a shame," Abbie said, putting the stack of plates in the cupboard above the counter. "Because Liz Olivet is in the living room, and I'm told she's a good listener."

"Oh for —" McCoy raked his fingers through his hair. "I don't need a fucking shrink, Abbie. I need a lawyer who —"

Abbie held up her hands. "I didn't call her. She turned up, looking for you. She said she'd been trying you at home and finally called Nora."

"She never did know when to leave well enough alone."

"Yeah, that's the annoying thing about friends, Jack. They tend to care about what happens to you and want to help." Abbie shut the cupboard firmly and turned, folding her arms. "So dig down deep and find the manners I know you have somewhere and go talk to her." When he didn't move, she scowled. "You can hear the front door from the living room, Jack. You can't hide in here all night in the hope she'll go away."

It was McCoy's turn to snort. "You don't know Liz Olivet if you think that'd work."

"No, but I know _you_ well enough to know you'd give it a try." She took his arm and turned him towards the door. "Go. Be polite for fifteen minutes. Then she'll leave and you can sulk in peace."

McCoy surrendered to the inevitable and reluctantly made his way to the living room.

Liz was sitting in one of the armchairs, to all appearances engrossed in one of Abbie's books. She was wearing her hair long again. It was still the same shining brown as it had been the day he'd met her, but she hadn't styled it into her usual professional waves and it fell loose and straight around her shoulders.

"Liz." She looked up and smiled, and McCoy made himself smile back. "I like your hair like that."

"Weekends I like to give it a break from the hairdryer. You can come all the way inside the room, Jack. I'm not here to pry."

He gave her a wry grin as he took her invitation and crossed to the couch. "You can't help yourself."

"Any more than you can help yourself from having to have the last word in any argument."

"Hazards of our respective professions. Did Abbie offer you a drink?"

"She did. I declined. But don't let that keep you from having one, if you want."

"Are you hoping to get my defenses down?"

"Are you defending anything important?"

"I thought you weren't here to pry."

"And I thought you said that I couldn't help myself."

McCoy found himself not sure whether to be angry or amused. He chose amused, deliberately, and grinned at her. "You were a loss to the legal profession, Liz."

"Maybe not. You just got me to prove your point for you in about ten seconds flat." She uncoiled herself from the chair and crossed to the sideboard. "I will have that drink, I think. I feel in need of fortification. You?"

"Scotch. Neat is fine."

Liz poured the same for them both. She brought him his glass, and then sat beside him on the couch, turning to lean against the arm so she was facing him. "This is not a professional visit, Jack, although I have been worried about you."

"I'm alright." McCoy sipped his drink. "Well, I might be going to jail. But as far as your professional interest is concerned, I'm alright."

Liz studied him over the rim of her glass. "You are," she said at last.

"So you can tell Emil to stop worrying."

He expected her to either look guilty or try to sell a denial, but instead she laughed. "I will. And Mike."

"Logan?"

"The same."

"And how's _he_ doing?"

She shrugged a little. "Riding a desk for the moment. Looking into a blackmail case, and I think you might be able to guess which one."

That was good news. Mike Logan and McCoy had butted heads back in the day, but if there was one thing about Logan that hadn't mellowed with time, it was his bone-deep loathing of anything that smelled like corruption or abuse of office. He'd pursue Keri Dyson's attempt to blackmail her way to the head of the promotions list as a personal affront. "Will he go back on the line?"

"I don't know." She sipped her drink. "I don't think he knows."

"You're helping him figure it out," McCoy said. It came out more caustically than he'd intended.

Liz didn't take offense. "Yes," she said. "Mike and I were over a long time ago, Jack, and he and Gina have something solid there if he can keep himself from screwing it up. I'm his friend, like I'm yours."

McCoy raised an eyebrow. "That's a creative interpretation."

She smiled. "Alright, I'm his friend like Emil is yours. And you know, Emil would be here, would have been here a week ago, except — "

McCoy nodded. "Witness for the prosecution."

"Not as yet. But he didn't want to take the chance of someone getting wind of a visit and getting called." Liz turned her glass between her hands. Her scotch was barely touched, McCoy noticed, while his own glass was almost empty. "He could claim confidentiality of course, but then he's on record as you needing a shrink. Which you'd have in common with ninety percent of the population of Manhattan, but juries can reach unwarranted conclusions. Especially with prosecutors leading them by the hand."

"And you? Not worried about a subpoena?"

Liz smiled. "I'm here to talk to you about Mike. It's a social call. And if someone is stupid enough to put me on the stand and ask me about this conversation, I can honestly answer that I didn't see anything other than a man suffering the perfectly normal stress of being on trial."

McCoy drained his glass and stood up. "Then it's a good thing you didn't come by last week," he said, crossing to the sideboard for a refill.

"What's changed?"

He paused, bottle half tilted. "Maybe I should give you a dollar before I tell you anything else."

"Maybe you should remind yourself about the rules of hearsay," Liz said, and he could tell from her voice that she was smiling again.

All the same, he put the bottle down and took out his wallet. "Will a five do?" he asked, turning around.

Liz held out her hand, and McCoy put the note into it. "I'm hired, Counselor."

"Last week the case was a he-said, she-said, only I had nothing to say. The night was a blank." Liz opened her mouth and he cut her off. "And no, I don't suffer from blackouts. Never in my life, before that night."

Liz nodded. "And we all know that story. The guy who no-one would have thought had it in him … and you're professionally predisposed to believe what victims tell you."

"And personally." McCoy stopped himself there. Perhaps the scotch had loosened his tongue after all. "But it turns out it doesn't matter what I can or can't remember. There are witnesses. It looks like the complaining witness wasn't even injured at all. At least, her medical records were forged."

"But that's wonderful, Jack." Liz set her glass down on the coffee table and turned to face him. "Why on earth did you say you might be going to jail?"

"Because you and I know that evidence isn't always enough in a courtroom. Hell, Liz, I've won cases weaker than the one Cutter's got against me. And he's a better lawyer than the one I've got."

"Then why did you hire him?"

"Him?"

"Your lawyer."

"Oh. Her," McCoy corrected.

"Oh," Liz said with a wealth of meaning. " _Her_."

"Not like that, Liz. She's usually my second chair." And that wasn't getting him out of anything, from her arched eyebrow. " _Just_ my second chair. I haven't — we haven't —" Which was tap-dancing along the thin edge of a lie, because they certainly _would_ have if it had been up to him. "I thought she'd do as I said and run the case the way I wanted — when what I wanted was to have it over with and face the music. Now I'm fighting for my life and she's not — she's a good prosecutor but not because of her courtroom skills. Not like Claire."

Liz picked up her drink and looked at it, and then looked at him. "When did you start doing that again?

"Doing what?"

"Comparing women to Claire Kincaid."

"I don't."

She raised an eyebrow. "You just did."

McCoy shook his head. "It's not the same. Claire — she defended me in court. Or that's what it amounted to, prosecuting Diana. Now Regan is doing the same. It's a natural train of thought. It's this case. It's just this case."

"Or just this woman."

McCoy frowned. "And what is that supposed to mean?"

"What do you think it means?"

He had to chose again, to be angry or to be amused, and it took an effort of will almost beyond him to chose amused this time. "I think your professional reflexes are kicking in."

Liz shrugged a little. "You hired me," she said.

"Technically."

"Courtrooms aren't the only places technicalities count." Liz sipped her drink again. "So tell me about her, this woman you're comparing to Claire."

"I don't compare her to Claire," McCoy said shortly. He'd stopped comparing women to Claire Kincaid a long time ago.

They always came up short.

He could bring the photograph to mind without even closing his eyes, could see it more clearly that the room in which he stood. Claire, squinting a little against the sun, laughing at something he'd said, beautiful, happy.

_Gone._

_Cover her face,_ he thought, the old quotes coming unbidden _, mine eyes dazzle. She died young._

If he had had any say, that would have been Claire's headstone. _Mine eyes dazzle_.

But he had had no say, no legal claim, and her mother had chosen _Beloved daughter._

"Jack?" Liz said softly, and he realized how long he'd been silent. Too long. Betrayingly long.

"I'm tired, Liz," he said. "Just tired. It's been a long few weeks. Regan is …" He shrugged. "Former cop, street smart, better with people than with law books. She's had some tough times but she's …" The words of the old doctor in Carthage came back to him. "A survivor." Liz opened her mouth to ask another damned question and McCoy faked a yawn. "I'm sorry, Liz, I really am tired."

"And an important day tomorrow," Liz said, nodding. She set down her glass and stood. "I'll take my cue, then. But if you do ever want to talk, Jack …"

She gave a wry smile, and McCoy returned it. When had he ever wanted to talk, to Liz, to anyone? "I'll call, Liz, if I need to."

He walked her out, and returned to the living room. He half expected Abbie to be there, ready to take over where Liz had left off, but the room was empty and in the silence he heard footsteps overhead.

He poured himself another drink.

Liz Olivet had meant well, she always meant well, but she was as wide of the mark tonight as she ever was. Oh, there might have been a time when every woman he looked at was nothing more than _not Claire_ , and if he was honest with himself it had been that rather than the hours he worked that had hammered the nails into the coffin of his third marriage. _But that was a long time ago._ He'd taken plenty of women to bed since then and never once considered all the ways in which they were so very different to Claire Kincaid.

It was just this case. It was just seeing Regan, unpolished and unpracticed in the courtroom, that had him remembering how elegantly sure-of-herself Claire had been, at least before a jury. And that was no fair comparison, because Claire had been aimed at a career in the law her whole life and Regan … for Regan the courtroom was a poor second-best to a patrol car.

He couldn't imagine Claire in uniform. She had been exotic enough in the DA's Office, a beautiful rose surrounded by the weeds and brambles of repeat offenders and beaten-down public defenders. Regan now, well. If Claire had been a rose then Regan was a bunch of sunflowers bought at a bodega, cheap and cheerful and perfectly at home in a fourth-floor walk-up. Claire had learned how to argue a case by arguing with her stepfather over the dinner table; at the same age, Regan had been learning different lessons from old Bill Markham.

Not how to win an argument, but how to defuse one. Not how to crack a witness, but how to win one over.

Learning that impersonal kindness she'd shown when McCoy's worst nightmares were all coming true and learning, too, the loyalty that had seen her willing to burn every bridge with the DA's Office and with him, too, in order to save him from himself.

As if the thought had summoned her, McCoy heard the front door open and close and a moment later Regan was standing in the doorway. The day had left its marks on her in a way even the longest case hadn't shown with Claire: hair fraying loose, lipstick a long-ago casualty to coffee cups, clothes wrinkled and rumpled and none-too-fresh.

Claire Kincaid had been young, and breath-takingly beautiful, and a brilliant legal mind.

Regan Markham was none of those things. Regan was worn and scarred inside and out by things no-one should have to survive. As much as McCoy enjoyed looking at her she would never stop traffic and she didn't even give enough of a damn about it to reapply lipstick. _And what makes her a good prosecutor is her talent with people that has nothing to do with the law_.

She was no Claire Kincaid, but then …

Claire Kincaid had been no Regan Markham, either.

"Cutter turned over the cab driver," Regan said. "Before I left. Enrico Rodriguez. I called Curtis on the way home, he's tracking him down now."

"What will he say?" McCoy asked.

Regan shrugged. "Not exculpatory, Cutter said. And not material, which is why he didn't plan to call him."

"Which is why he didn't turn him over in discovery. So the question is, why now?"

He could see Regan thinking about it. "He can confirm Evatt's evidence. Cutter's feet are getting cold."

McCoy nodded.

"He offered a deal," Regan said softly.

"I don't want it," McCoy said instantly.

"I know, but I'm obliged to tell you. No time."

"No time, no license, no job."

"I know." She crossed to the sideboard and poured herself a drink. "But Jack … if I fuck it up tomorrow, you could end up with no license and no job and behind bars."

"You won't."

Regan snorted and turned to look at him, leaning back against the wall. "Were you paying any attention at all today?"

"I was paying _too much_ attention today," McCoy said. "Regan, you're not me. You're not — not any one of the other lawyers at One Hogan Place. And you can't be, no matter how hard you try. You can't do what they'd do, what I'd do."

"I know that, Jack." She looked away from him, scratching her cheek. "Believe me, I do know it."

"No." McCoy stood and crossed to her, taking her shoulders, making her face him. "Because none of them, none of us, is you, either, Regan."

"And would want to be, either. A washed-up ex-cop whose career highlight was walking a beat?"

"Exactly," McCoy said, and her eyes widened at the sincerity in his voice. "Exactly, Regan. That's exactly who you are and exactly why you're going to win tomorrow."

She tilted her head back a little and studied him. "You're going to need to explain," she said at last.

* * *

 

.oOo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The stories "Aftereffect" and "The Ones After" take place in the same storyverse as this series. Jack McCoy's third marriage is fanon, not canon. 
> 
> The quote is from John Webster's The Duchess of Malfi.


	40. Reluctant Witness

_Mercy General_

_8:30pm Sunday May 13_ _th_ _2007_

* * *

"I _have_ the patient's records," Connie Rubirosa said for the fifteenth time. "Look. All you have to do is confirm them."

"And I _told_ you," the registrar retorted, also for the fifteenth time, "Without a waiver from the patient, you aren't seeing anything, copy or not."

Connie opened her mouth to answer, and her phone rang. "We're not done," she said the registrar, and yanked it from her pocket. "Rubirosa."

"Connie, it's Mike."

"Mike, I haven't – "

"Let it go, Connie," he said. "How fast can you get back to the office?"

_I am going to strangle you with your own tie_ , Connie thought. What she said was: "Thirty minutes."

"Call me when you're getting close," he said. "I'll meet you out front."

"What's up?"

"I'll tell you on the way," Cutter said, and hung up.

_I am going to strangle you with your own tie and then borrow a tie from Omardi in Fraud and strangle you a second time._

Connie slipped her phone back in her pocket and looked back at the registrar. "We _are_ done here, actually. Thank you for your time."

She couldn't really blame him for the pissed-off look he gave her.

She had a pissed-off look of her own for Mike Cutter when he met her on the steps of One Hogan Place. 'What's going on, Mike?"

He steered her back towards the curb. "We have a line on a possible witness."

"And you want me to go check it out?"

Cutter opened the door to the cab that stopped for his raised hand. " _We_ _'_ _re_ going to go check it out. Get in."

"Mike – "

He shut the door on her and jogged around the other side of the taxi to get in, telling the driver "193 Berkeley, Brooklyn." He pulled some folded pages from his pocket and leaned forward to offer them to the driver. "Here's a map."

Connie tried again. "Mike, who is this witness? Why does this take both of us?"

Cutter waited until the cab pulled out into the traffic. "Her name is Lisbeth Lyneham." He gave Connie a moment to search her memory. "Before she married Patrick Lyneham her name was Lisbeth McCoy."

"Jack's ex-wife?" _If Mike wants her on the witness stand he must think she_ _'_ _ll say Jack … dammit, did Cutter get something out of the divorce records? Did she make some allegation that he –_

"Jack's _sister,_ _"_ Cutter said _._ "She's his emergency contact in his personnel file. Which Colleen _finally_ passed my request for to Arthur."

"And what does _she_ have to do with the case?"

Cutter shot a glance at the driver _,_ and then looked back at Connie. She nodded to show she understood his warning. _Listening ears._ She raised an eyebrow in reply: _Dammit, Mike, give me_ _ **something**_ **.**

He leaned towards her and lowered his voice. "Connie, I need to hear what she has to say for myself. But I need your opinion of it, too."

"Because … ?"

"Because I think we both know my _judgment_ hasn't been as reliable as it could be on this trial."

She liked him a little for making that admission, and for not looking away from her when he made it. "And what do you think she's going to tell you? That you need to hear?"

He did look away from her then, studying the view as they went over the bridge. "I had a law professor who used to say that motive was the most important part of any jury trial. Juries will ignore eyewitness accounts, forensics, if you don't give them a _motive_ to sink their teeth into."

Connie nodded. "People need to hear a story that makes sense, that they can believe in. The _why_ is the most important part of that."

"That's what I'm hoping Lisbeth Lyneham will tell me, Connie." Cutter turned back to her. "A story I can believe in."

Berkeley Place was one the few streets in Brooklyn streets that seemed to have resisted both gentrification and decay. The street was clean, the tiny squares of garden before each brownstone were tidy. The bicycle chained up in front of number 191 was a regular ten-speed and the cars parked in the street were neither brand new nor decrepit. Looking up and down the street, Connie could see a few of the residents enjoying the balmy spring evening on their front steps.

Cutter led the way up the steps to the door of Lisbeth Lyneham's house and knocked.

"Mrs Lyneham?" he said when a middle-aged woman with a shock of dark hair opened it. She nodded. "I'm Mike Cutter and this is Connie Rubirosa. We're from the District Attorney's — wait!" He stuck his foot in the door right before Lisbeth managed to close it. "Please, hear me out."

"You're the ones trying to lock Jack up on those false charges," Lisbeth Lyneham said. "I have nothing to say to you."

"We're trying to find the truth."

In that moment, the family resemblance was clear, even if Lisbeth was younger and softer around the mouth and eyes than Jack McCoy. They had the same nose and right at that moment, the McCoy family scowl was very much in evidence. "I read the papers, young man, even if Jack doesn't want me to come to the courthouse. The last thing you're interested in is the truth."

Cutter had the grace to flinch at that. "I thought I knew what it was. I swear to you, Mrs Lyneham, I didn't set out to prosecute an innocent man." He winced as she put her weight on the door and his foot took the burden. "Jack was acting like a guilty man. He wouldn't even let his lawyer put on a proper defense. I drew the natural conclusion. What was I supposed to think?"

"Jack should never have been charged," Connie said past Cutter's shoulder, and ignored the glare he shot her. "But he insisted on it, Mrs Lyneham, did he tell you that?"

The McCoy family scowl, the McCoy family set jaw. "And now you come around here, at this time of night, and expect me to believe you've had a change of heart?"

"I asked Jack tonight why he'd almost let me railroad him straight to a conviction and he walked out. I asked his _lawyer_ and she told me about her father driving drunk. Because, she said, what happens to your family when you're growing up makes a difference to who you are. Because you can blame yourself for things that aren't your fault. Mrs Lyneham. You know what she meant, don't you? You know what it is that Jack won't tell me."

Connie put the pieces together then. She bet Cutter had done so too, had done so long before he'd decided that Lisbeth Lyneham's home was on their evening itinerary. He wanted confirmation of his hunch before he decided what to do about it. _And quite possibly, having failed to get a win against Jack McCoy or Regan Markham on the topic, he_ _'_ _s hell-bent on forcing at least one person tonight to talk._

There were a lot of things Connie liked about Mike Cutter, but his driving need to _win_ , the way he treated every interaction like an Olympic final, got extremely tiring after a while.

Mrs Lyneham had stopped trying to crush Cutter's foot with the door, but she was still frowning. "And I should talk to you when my brother won't? If you've realized Jack isn't guilty, drop the charges!"

"That would clear him before the criminal court, Mrs Lyneham, not the court of public opinion."

She snorted, exactly the same scoffing sound Jack McCoy made when a defendant's lawyer offered to plead to assault on a murder charge. "As if Jack cared what people think of him."

"I think he does care a little bit, Mrs Lyneham, or I wouldn't need to be here, would I? He cares what people think of him, because those people end up on juries. Now I have a way to give his lawyer the chance to prove to the whole world he's an innocent man, but it's going to make me look very bad. It will probably end my own career. At the very least it'll put a serious crimp in it. Before I do that, I need to know — why, when a woman accused Jack McCoy of beating her bloody, did he all but put up his hands and say 'you've got me dead to rights'?"

There was a long silence. "You're really going to try and help him?"

"That depends on whether or not you can help me," Cutter said.

Another long silence, and then Mrs Lyneham stepped back from the door. "You'd better come in," she said.

Cutter and Connie followed her down the hall to the kitchen. Mrs Lyneham took a seat at the kitchen table and Connie joined her. Cutter leaned against the wall, hands in his pockets.

"Mrs Lyneham," Connie said, when the other women didn't seem to be about to speak. Cutter straightened a little, opened his mouth, and Connie lifted a hand. He subsided. "A few years ago, I notice that my little sister was wearing a lot more makeup some days. She's always had great skin, but she was caking on the foundation and the powder, so much that her clothes were always covered in this white dust, because every time she smiled or spoke some of her makeup would crack and drift down. Except I noticed around then that she was smiling a lot less that she used to."

Lisbeth Lyneham nodded.

"It took a while for her to admit it," Connie said. "She didn't want to talk about it, with anyone. She was ashamed of it. He told her it was her fault and part of her believed him."

"It wasn't," Mrs Lyneham said.

"I know. And now she knows. And he's in jail." She paused. "But your father never went to jail, did he?"

"Hardly." Mrs Lyneham locked her hands together, a grip so tight her knuckles went white. "He was a cop. What would have been the point of reporting him?"

"Even these days it'd be hard," Cutter said. "Back then …"

"Back then it was a _family matter,_ " Mrs Lyneham said bitterly. "We lied about it, mostly. Our mother walked into a lot of doors. Jack fell off his bike. Once or twice there was no way to pretend it was an accident because … because the ambulance had to come. _Mrs McCoy, what did you do to provoke him_ , they asked her the first time."

"I know Jack's Irish temper," Cutter said. "He swung back, didn't he, Mrs Lyneham?"

She shook her head. "I used to wish he would, and god forgive me for it. I thought maybe it would have made the S.O.B. more cautious. But Jack wouldn't. He'd make himself the target — dated a Polish girl for a while, the most peaceful month I think my mother had since the day she married. But he wouldn't fight back. Not once. That's how I know he's innocent, Mr Cutter. Not because he's family, he and I both know that counts for nothing. But because hitting a woman would make him his father's son, and Jack would step off the Brooklyn Bridge before that happened. And I'd hold his coat while he did. He said he was never going to look in the mirror and see the old man's face."

Cutter rocked back on his heels and looked down at his feet. "Until ten days ago, when he did."

"Or _thought_ he did," Connie said. "Mike, those questions Regan asked Dr Rodgers about GHB …"

He nodded. "And now we know _her_ theory of the crime, and it's not the same crime we're prosecuting."

"Are you going to help him, Mr Cutter?" Lisbeth Lyneham asked. "Are you going to help my brother?"

* * *

 

.oOo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Connie mentions her sister's abusive relationship in "Captive".


	41. The Morning Of

_It_ _'_ _s her office door at Hogan Place, and Jack McCoy is standing framed in the doorway, looking at her._

_Before Regan can say anything to him he turns and walks away. She goes after him, chasing him through the corridors. He_ _'_ _s walking,but although she runs as fast as she can she can't catch up with him. She chases him for hours, lungs burning, legs aching, until she suddenly turns a corner and realizes she's in the courthouse. McCoy is disappearing through the doors of a courtroom ahead of her and she hurries after him._

_The courtroom is empty, except for McCoy. He walks down the center aisle and takes a seat – on the wrong side of the aisle – on the defendant_ _'_ _s side._

_Dread seizes her, freezes her where she stands. She forces her feet to move, to carry her forward up the long aisle, miles and miles of it, one step after another until she comes to the bar and passes it._

_McCoy turns to face her. His jacket is unbuttoned and his white shirt is crimson with blood, enough blood to soak the fabric and pool in his lap, spilling down onto the marble floor in a glistening flood._

_"_ _Help me, Ellie, please, oh god, it hurts, help me," he says._

_And Regan sees the gun in her own hand._

She jerked awake, heart hammering, flung herself at the bedside table and switched on the lamp. For a moment the dancing rabbits along the baseboard were less clear than a pool of blood on a courtroom floor and then she blinked hard and the real world came back to her.

_A dream. Just a dream._ God, she didn't even need Skoda to work out what it had meant, why her subconscious was putting McCoy in the place of both the husband she hadn't been able to save and the man she'd shot dead. _Guilt and nerves, wrapped up on one neat metaphor_.

She swung herself out of bed and crossed to the window. It was still dark outside but she could hear a bird warming up for the dawn chorus somewhere nearby. There was no point trying to get back to sleep.

Instead, she padded downstairs as quietly as she could, careful to avoid the third step down that always creaked. No need to wake Abbie. Or McCoy, if he'd managed to sleep the night before his whole future would be on the line.

But when she paused in the doorway to the living room she could see that he had managed it, after all, stretched out on the couch as deeply asleep as if he had not a care in the world.

Perhaps he didn't. He'd been confident, even cheerful, last night, exactly the way he always was when a new witness or a new piece of evidence had him walking into a courtroom with a slam-dunk conviction in prospect.

_You have to forget everything I_ _'_ _ve been telling you_ , he'd said. _I_ _'_ _ve been trying to teach you to try the case the way I would. You need to do it_ ** _your_** _way, Regan. The way you did it with Conroy and Timmy McMillan._

That seemed to make perfect sense to _him_. Regan wished it made perfect sense to her.

Regan hadn't mentioned the possibility that Cutter would put Keri Dyson on the stand to McCoy. She didn't know if she'd persuaded Cutter to look past what McCoy had said and done in those first days after Dyson had made her accusation, if there was even a possibility she could have managed it with her hands tied by McCoy's refusal to explain.

If Cutter called Dyson, it would be as good as an admission that he knew McCoy was innocent. If Cutter called Dyson, he'd be handing her the opportunity to prove McCoy's innocence in open court in a blazing exoneration that would erase every smear against his name.

_An opportunity. Not a certainty._ Dyson wasn't just a witness. She was a lawyer, too. She wouldn't be wrong-footed easily, she wouldn't crack.

McCoy seemed to think that her being an ex-cop was some sort of secret weapon. A small caliber handgun, maybe. And what the defense really needed was a rocket launcher.

She went into the kitchen and started a pot of coffee. She was staring out the back window and waiting for it to brew when a noise behind her made her turn.

McCoy stood leaning against the door-frame, arms folded.

"Sorry," Regan said. "I didn't want to wake you."

"You didn't," he said. "I smelled the coffee in my sleep." He paused. "You're up early."

"Big day."

"Not too much coffee," he cautioned. "And something solid for breakfast."

"Mike Cutter less forthcoming with the emergency candy bar than Danielle Melnick?" Regan asked, remembering the story he'd told her on the first trial she'd second chaired for him.

"Considerably, I'd say." He crossed to the coffee pot and poured for them both. "Don't worry so much, Regan. You'll be great."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Did you maybe hit your head on your way back here from Hogan Place last night?"

He laughed, and shook his head. "Something someone said to me made me see things in a different light."

"Was it, don't worry Jack, the jury's been thoroughly bribed?"

This time he didn't laugh. "I've been selling you short, Regan. Don't let me make you do the same thing."

She took a breath, and drained her cup. "I should get ready," she said, standing.

"Breakfast?" McCoy prompted.

"We can stop at Mickey's on the way in. I won't be able to eat until I'm sure we won't be late, Jack."

"At this hour, we could walk there and still be at the courthouse before the doors opened."

"Then we'll have plenty of time," Regan pointed out, and made her escape.

She took extra time and care with her hair and makeup. As stupid as it was, appearances mattered to juries. Jack McCoy might be able to get away with slightly rumpled charm, but the rules were different for women. She'd chosen her best suit the night before, a warm brown that was almost gold in some lights, and she put it on and checked herself from head to toe. _Yes, I look like a lawyer._

"Regan?" McCoy said from the hall. "Are you ready?"

_Oh, god, how much time has gone by?_ She checked her watch, pulse racing, but it was still early, barely past seven. Maybe McCoy had a case of nerves, too, for all his calming words.

"I'm done," she said, and opened the door. He'd obviously shaved and showered while she was trying to keep her hand from shaking while she put on her mascara. He looked ready to walk out the door. "I look okay?"

"You look fine."

She deflated a little. "Just fine? I wanted to look like a proper lawyer."

"You look like a million dollars, Regan, or like a lawyer worth a million dollars."

"Is that bad?" she asked anxiously.

He smiled. "No. You look right for court. I just — I just prefer it when you look more like yourself. Come on. We should be in time to get the good table at Mickey's."

"Mickey's only has two tables," Regan pointed out, following him down the stairs. Her briefcase was by the door, where she'd left it packed and ready before going to bed.

"And one of them wobbles."

Abbie drove them in. Regan suspected it was as much to let herself feel she was contributing _something_ today as it was to spare McCoy and Regan a cab ride. None of them talked much. At this point, there wasn't much to say, besides _Good luck_ , which Abbie wished them both as she double-parked outside Mickey's diner to let them get out.

They were in time to get the good table, and Regan forced herself to order a stack of pancakes and eat at least half of it. McCoy pushed his own meal around the plate a little more than necessary and Regan considered calling him on his hypocrisy, but then, he didn't have to do more than sit at the bar table and watch as his future hung on the line. _And in his position I doubt I_ _'_ _d have a settled enough stomach to keep coffee down, let alone eggs and toast._

She made sure to buy a couple of candy bars at the counter on the way out, just in case, and tucked them in her briefcase.

The sight of the courthouse sent the butterflies in her stomach into a frenzy and for a moment she couldn't make herself take a step towards it, mind blank with panic. _White line_ , she thought desperately, _white line and the road at night and the car tires hissing over the asphalt, eating up the miles, chasing the moon down the sky with nowhere to go and nowhere to be._

Her breathing slowed. She looked at McCoy, who was staring at the courthouse steps with his jaw set and his eyes narrowed.

"When this is over," she said, "I'm going to buy that convertible."

It drew his attention back to her, and after a moment a smile quirked the side of his mouth. "You won't, you know."

"No?"

He shook his head. "You're too much a highway cop to ever get in a car without airbags and roll-bars."

The second he said it Regan knew he was absolutely right. She'd no more drive a convertible than she'd ride pillion on McCoy's motorbike. She'd never thought about that, turning the fantasy of escape over in her mind; McCoy hadn't even needed to think to point it out.

_Almost as if he knows more about me than I do_.

He was waiting, now, watching her, waiting for her to be ready to cross the street and climb the stairs. "Jack," she said softly. "Do you really think I can do this?"

He didn't hesitate. "I do. I know it." He paused. "You know, a smart woman once said to me that partners are the ones who believe in you when you can't believe in yourself. You're nervous, and that's not a bad thing. Nerves give you an edge if you don't let them get in the way. But don't let them tell you that you aren't more than the equal of this, Regan. I know my way around a courtroom, and I know you, and I know you can make the jury believe the doorman and Dr Margolis, and break Cutter's case today."

Regan took a deep breath. "Okay," she said. She resisted the urge to smooth her hair, wary of messing up the French twist that had taken her fifteen minutes to achieve. "Then let's go."

* * *

 

.oOo.


	42. In Limine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In Limine, lit. "On the threshold"

_Supreme Court 100 Centre St_

_9.15 am Monday May 14_ _th_ _2007_

* * *

The courtroom doors opened and Regan moved towards them. McCoy was following her, and then she felt a little space opening up between them, and turned.

Mike Cutter had stopped McCoy with a hand on his arm, was leaning in and talking low.

Regan got her shoulder in between them. "My _client_ , Mr Cutter. You know the rules."

Cutter's glaze flicked from McCoy to Regan and then back again. He was a lean man with a face more angles than curves but today he looked pulled especially tight and there were shadows under his eyes that suggested he'd slept even worse than Regan had. "You should have told me, Jack," he said. "Yesterday, _Jesus_ , you should have told me a week ago before I hung myself out to dry on this. Tell me how _either_ of us is going to walk away from this one with our reputations intact."

"I don't know what you're talking about," McCoy said. "We're not holding anything back that's discoverable."

"I'm not talking about discovery, Jack, I'm talking about —"

They were causing a mild pile-up at the doors to the courtroom and Regan was pretty sure at least a few of the gawking bystanders were reporters. She couldn't see an open door that might indicate a free conference room.

Then the sign for the men's room caught her eye.

She took McCoy by the shoulder and Cutter by the arm, just above the elbow where she could get a good firm grip, and shoved them both towards the door. Neither of them were small men, and either one of them could have made it difficult, but Regan had learned long ago that it takes most people a few seconds to decide to resist. That was why they taught rookies to get the cuffs on fast, and that was why Regan was pushing the two men ahead of her through the door to the mens' room before Cutter planted his feet and tried to yank his arm away from her grip.

She squeezed the tender flesh between bicep and bone hard enough to hurt and forced Cutter through the door after McCoy, following hard on his heels so he had no chance to turn.

There was no-one else there. Regan closed the door and put her back to it. "If you two want a pissing contest, well, go right ahead. If you have something pertinent to say about the trial, Mr Cutter, say it to me."

Cutter ignored her. "You wanted to plead guilty, Jack," he said, biting each word off, stabbing his forefinger at McCoy. "What was I supposed to think? What would any prosecutor think? I _knew_ there was a case to be made if I could just _find_ it."

"And you knew that a conviction would leave an empty desk on the 10th floor and my scalp on your belt would be a pretty convincing addition to your resume!"

"Yes!" Cutter turned in a circle and raked his fingers through his hair. "Yes, _goddamn_ it, guilty as charged. I like to win. I like high profile cases. I have ambitions. Tell me that none of those things are true about you!"

"I'll give you that one. But I'm fighting for my life in there, Mike, and I won't lie down and die to make you look good."

"Forget about making me look good. I'd settle for not having to chose between setting my own career on fire and letting yours — and more importantly the office — be irreparably tarnished. Jesus, Jack! Did you see this coming? Were you _setting me up_? Did I steal your fucking parking space one time or something?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about —"

"I thought Dyson was salting the evidence. I swear it, Jack, that's all. It happens, you know it happens."

"It does," McCoy said. "I might have thought the same thing. You could have looked more closely, though."

"I had a defendant who wanted to plead guilty, how close would you have looked?"

"You played a bad hand as hard as you could," McCoy said. "I understand the instinct but I fail to see why you're blaming me for it."

Cutter whirled back to face him, leaning forward, almost close enough to prompt Regan to get in between them and force Cutter back. "Because you could have stopped me! You had to know how those first days of the trial looked, how it would have looked to you, damn it, Jack, and you never explained. Ms Markham was trailing her coat on GHB last week and that's because you don't know what happened, do you, Jack? You can't remember! But you couldn't tell me that, you couldn't say, hey, Mike, I don't know what happened that night and I'm afraid that more than the surname runs in the _family_ —"

"Stop right there!" Now McCoy was the one in Cutter's face and if Cutter was angry, McCoy was incandescent with volcanic rage. "I don't know what you think you —"

"It's 2007, Jack, we _talk_ about this —"

"What did Regan say to you? What, Mike? _What?_ _"_

"She told me —"

McCoy turned, glaring at Regan. "Goddammit, Regan! I don't know what you think you know but —"

"She told me her father died driving drunk!" Cutter had the capacity for impressive volume, Regan realized, especially in a small room with a lot of tiled surfaces. "She didn't say a word about you, Jack, so lay off her! It was your sister who told me about your father so if you want to be angry with anyone —"

McCoy could turn up the volume to eleven as well. "You involved _Lisbeth_ in this?"

"I had to know, Jack! You know that!"

"My privacy —"

"The second you told ADA Markham to walk that complaint downstairs your privacy became my business and you know it. What privacy do _you_ give defendants, Jack? When you're looking for motive, sending detectives to turn over their underwear drawers and read their love-letters? Getting warrants for wiretaps and tendering their conversations with their kids into evidence? When —"

In Regan's opinion, Cutter had a point, and she could appreciate the frustration that made him want to make it at length and at the top of his voice. However, a glance at her watch showed her they had about two minutes before the judge walked into the courtroom. She pitched her own voice to carry, not shouting like the two men but hard and even like a police officer asking _what_ _'_ _s going on here_ into the middle of a rowdy scuffle. "What are you going to do?"

"What do you think I'm going to do? I'm going to put Keri Dyson on the stand."

"Suborning perjury to get a conviction?" McCoy snapped.

"Jesus, Jack," Cutter snarled. "Learn to listen to someone besides yourself for once."

He headed for the door and Regan moved aside to let him pass.

"And what do you think this has achieved?" McCoy glared at Regan. "Aside from leading Mike by the hand to conclusions neither you nor he have any _right_ to draw? Aside from getting my _sister_ involved in this mess?"

"You said yourself on Saturday night that I needed Cutter to call Dyson. And I didn't, I _swear_ I didn't say a word about — about anyone but myself."

"Don't give me that!'" McCoy glared at her. "He's fully literate in between the lines and you know it. You said enough to tell him where to look."

"You'd rather go to jail?"

"You could take this case apart without Mike putting Dyson on the stand."

"But I can't give you your life back," Regan said. "Not without exonerating you in the court of public opinion as well. I know you didn't want anyone to know. And I understand why, Jack, surely you know I understand why. But juries need a story they can understand, you taught me that, and last night, Mike Cutter was the jury who mattered."

"You could have called Keri —"

"As a witness for the defense? Jack, I need to get her on cross and I need Cutter to get out of my way while I do it and you know, you _know_ all that is true. You're the one who said it." She paused. "Hating me for it won't unring the bell. And we have to get in there."

She pulled open the door and waited, and after a moment McCoy strode through it.

"We're not done with this," he snapped as he passed her.

"Didn't think for a moment we were," Regan muttered as she followed him.

They made it to the bar table with seconds to spare, not helped by the fact that McCoy stopped dead halfway up the aisle. Regan shoved him in the small of his back, surreptitiously following his gaze to see who he was staring at. It was either a young man who looked to be about thirteen years old wearing a fedora with home-made press sign tucked in the band or a middle-aged woman. The woman was tall and slim, with a strong-boned face that women's magazines would characterize as 'handsome' rather than 'beautiful', and a thick mane of dark hair pinned up in a loose bun. Regan glanced back as she reached the bar and caught a profile that made it unmistakable: that could only be Lisbeth McCoy.

"All rise," the bailiff said. "The court is now in session, the Honorable Judge Wright presiding."

Regan rose to her feet along with everyone else as the judge came in. "Mr Cutter," he said almost before his backside hit the bench.

Mike Cutter stayed on his feet as everybody else settled back into their seats. "Your honor."

"ADA Rubirosa delivered the report on the contested documents to me this morning. Do you have anything to add before I make my ruling?"

"Only that I profoundly regret not securing such a report before originally tendering the documents as evidence."

"Noted." Judge Wright looked down, reading from his notes. "In light of concerns raised by police experts as to the veracity of the medical records tendered in evidence by the prosecution, not to mention certain other matters brought to the court's attention by the District Attorney's Office —"

Regan turned to stare at Cutter, but he was looking straight ahead with an expression of obedient attention. It was _Connie_ who caught her gaze and gave her a tiny smile.

"— I hereby rule these records are excluded from evidence," Judge Wright was saying. "And I intend to instruct the jury so and inform them of the reasons. Anything to say, Mr Cutter?"

"No, your honor."

"You have no case, Mr Cutter. Do you intend to present one, or should I save us all time and dismiss the charges right now?"

"Your Honor, I have one more witness."

"You don't want to quit while you're behind?"

"No, your honor. I believe the court should hear the entirety of the evidence."

"Very well. Bring the jury in."

Cutter sank back into his seat as the bailiff opened the door to the jury room and the jurors filed in and took their places in the jury box. He kept his gaze fixed on the legal pad in front of him as Judge Wright explained to the jury that sufficient doubts had been raised about the veracity of the medical records tendered in evidence as to make them inadmissible. When he asked if they had any questions, one of the jurors raised his hand and asked what _veracity_ meant.

"It means that the experts in the police laboratory have doubts that they're true," Judge Wright said.

A little murmur ran through the jury box at that and through the courtroom observers benches too. Regan had to work hard not to grin. _Sometimes, a bell can be unrung_. _Sometimes, the silence afterwards is of a finer quality than could ever have been possible before._

She wanted the share the moment of triumph but she didn't dare try to catch McCoy's eye. Last night in Cutter's office she'd followed the letter of the law and of McCoy's instructions and known she was tap-dancing through their spirit in hobnailed boots. At the time, it had felt like a move straight from the Jack McCoy playbook. She'd thought about how much it cost her right then, but not about what it might cost her when McCoy found out.

_What did you expect, an attagirl?_

Danielle Melnick had said it. _He_ _'_ _s not a man who forgives. What he sees as betrayal – he's not a man who forgives._

"Mr Cutter?" the judge asked, tone testy.

Mike Cutter rose to his feet. "The People call Keri Dyson."

* * *

 

.oOo.


	43. Drawing To An Inside Straight

"The People call Keri Dyson."

Regan pulled her legal pad towards her and uncapped her pen as the doors opened. She heard the slight rustle as everyone in the crowded public benches turned to get a look at Keri. She concentrated on writing the date and time carefully at the top of the page to prevent herself from doing the same.

Footsteps, heels tapping on the floor. Out of the corner of her eye Regan saw Keri step past the bar and then hesitate before staying close by the prosecution table and as far away from Jack McCoy as possible as she moved into the well of the court. _Nice touch_. Finally, Regan let herself look up as Keri took her seat and was sworn in.

Regan could guess Keri had dressed as carefully for the day as Regan herself had, although to different effect. Her suit was a dove-gray, demure, the blouse beneath it high-collared. Her hair was pulled back, not the most flattering style but one that showed every inch of the deep purple bruises to her eye and cheek to the jury. She looked pretty, but not pretty enough to make any of the female jurors jealous or to give any of the men on the jury Neanderthal ideas about it being understandable for a fellow to get carried away. She looked, in short, exactly the way Regan would want a complaining witness to look in a case she herself was prosecuting.

It was a reminder, if she needed one, that Keri Dyson was no ordinary witness, that she was not just a lawyer but an ADA and she'd know every one of the tricks that Regan had so painstakingly learned from Jack McCoy.

"Please state your name for the record," Cutter asked, tone absolutely neutral.

"Keri Marie Dyson."

He took her through her date of birth, her occupation, her address. And then —

"How long have you worked at the District Attorney's Office?"

Regan kept her face calmly attentive as Keri answered, and as Cutter took her through the rest of her work history, job by job and promotion by promotion, but she wrote on the pad in front of her _What is he doing?_ and turned it for McCoy to read.

He took the pen from her hand and wrote underneath it _opening the door._

And underlined it, twice.

Keri looked, perhaps, slightly confused, or maybe that was Regan's imagination and wishful thinking. Regan stole a glance at Cutter and couldn't read his expression at all.

"On the evening of May third, did you visit the Lord Roberts?" Cutter asked.

Judge Wright shot a glance at Regan, no doubt waiting for an objection on leading the witness. Regan kept her mouth closed and her backside firmly in her seat. If she was right, Cutter was working hard to leave it open for the defense to cross-examine on Keri's allegations without suborning perjury himself. She wasn't going to risk making it impossible for him to open every door he could.

"I did," Keri said.

"What happened there?" Slight stress on the last word.

Keri went through the evening, nothing Regan could identify as a lie. _She_ _'_ _s too clever to lie about things a dozen other lawyers saw._

Cutter glanced down at his papers. "When did you leave the bar?"

"About a quarter to nine."

"Alone?"

"No. I left with Mr McCoy. I wanted to make sure he got safely home."

"How did you travel?"

"I hailed a cab."

"And on the morning of May fourth, what did you do?" Cutter asked.

And now there was a slight upright line between Keri's eyebrows, the hint of a frown, as Cutter skipped straight past the events of the evening of May third, past everything that happened at McCoy's apartment. "I went to work," she said.

"Was it a normal day?"

"No. How could it be a normal day? I'd been assaulted the night before."

Cutter ignored Keri's efforts to steer him back to the previous evening. "What did you do, on the morning of May fourth?"

"I confronted Mr McCoy over his assault of me."

"And how did he respond?"

"He tried to intimidate me with a false charge of blackmail."

"You are currently charged with attempted blackmail, correct?"

Keri's eyes filled with tears. "Yes. I just — everyone respects Mr McCoy. I wanted him to make things right, I wasn't sure I should make a fuss but I wanted him to make things right. I didn't mean — it wasn't _blackmail_. I was just confused."

"And then you made a complaint against Mr McCoy?"

"Yes."

Cutter took a document from the folder in front of him and crossed to the witness stand. "Is this the complaint?"

Keri took the paper reluctantly and looked at it. "Yes."

"Can you read the name of the Assistant District Attorney who filled out the form?"

"Yes," Dyson said. "Regan Markham."

"Is Regan Markham in this courtroom?" Cutter asked.

"You know she is," Keri said.

"Mr Cutter, where is this going?" Judge Wright asked.

"I seek to put all relevant facts before the jury, your honor."

Judge Wright raised an eyebrow. "Ms Markham?"

Regan raised herself a little from her seat. "No objection, your honor."

A pause. "Continue, Mr Cutter," Judge Wright said at last.

"Can you point out Regan Markham, Ms Dyson?" Cutter asked.

Keri raised her hand and pointed at Regan. "That's her."

"Mr McCoy's defense attorney is the same person as the Assistant District Attorney who took your complaint against Mr McCoy for the matter which is the subject of this trial?"

"Yes."

"Thank you," Cutter said. "No further questions."

He walked back to the bar table without looking at anyone and sat down. As Regan rose to her feet, she saw Connie Rubirosa put her hand on Cutter's arm.

Mike Cutter had done his best for McCoy. Now it was up to Regan.

Keri Dyson and the witness stand seemed an impossibly long way away across the well of the court. Regan realized her knees were trembling. She would have to ask the first question and possibly all the questions from here behind the table so the jury couldn't see how nervous she was. And what should her first question be? Her mind was blank. She looked down at the notes she scrawled while Cutter had been questioning Keri and they might as well have been written in Chinese for all the sense they made to her.

She swallowed bile, realizing she was about to lose her breakfast all over the bar table.

_I can_ _'_ _t._

_Can_ _'_ _t do this._

_Can_ _'_ _t help him._

_Can_ _'_ _t help anybody._

Frantically, she leafed through her papers, finding the page she'd filled with notes after McCoy's critique of her courtroom technique on the day before. There had to be something there …

McCoy took hold of the page and turned it face down. "You don't need that," he said softly.

"Jack, I — I'll try to do as good a job as – " _As Claire Kincaid would have_. "I'll try to do what you would do, Jack, I'll do – "

He shook his head. "Don't do what I would do," he said. "Don't do it my way. _Do it your way_. Remember Timmy McMillan."

"That was police work."

"You know the truth. She knows the truth. You need to make her want to tell you. How is that so different?"

"Ms Markham?" Judge Wright asked. "Do you have questions for this witness?"

"I do, your honor."

She straightened, reaching back past McCoy's advice, past the cases they'd tried, past law school. Back to an old man's scratchy voice imparting a life-time's experience in law enforcement over the dinner-table, in the car, at every passing opportunity. _People like to talk, Eli. They don_ _'_ _t like being questioned, but they like to talk._

"Hi, Keri."

A small, tight nod in return.

"You just told the court that I was the one who took your complaint against Jack McCoy. How did that go down, exactly?"

"What do you mean?"

"Where did it happen?"

"In Mr McCoy's office."

"Was he there?"

"You know he was."

"Did he object?"

"You know he didn't."

"I do," Regan said, and smiled a little. "But you know I can't tell the court from here at the bar table. Did he say anything? Did I?"

"He —" Keri didn't want to say it, Regan could see, but if Regan couldn't testify, McCoy could. Keri was trapped into the truth. "He ordered you to do it. You — you said something about 'rookie hazing'."

"Thank you." On the record, in the jury's memory — that Jack McCoy had followed the letter of the law, that Jack McCoy's attorney had never for a moment believed him guilty. "Keri, you told us about having a few drinks with Mr McCoy at the Lord Roberts." Regan turned back to the bar table and picked up a piece of paper at random. She pretended to read from it. "Three drinks."

"I don't know how many drinks he'd had."

Relieved to realize her knees had stopped trembling, Regan moved out from behind the bar table and into the center of the courtroom. Closer to the witness stand, making it more a conversation, but not too close, leaving Keri plenty of room to feel comfortable. About the same distance she'd leave between herself and someone getting upset on the street. "How many drinks did you _see_ him have, Keri?"

"Three."

"Two of which you bought for him, didn't you?"

"I don't remember. Maybe. People were going to the bar … you know how it is."

"We've heard from several witnesses who are quite certain you bought Mr McCoy two of the three drinks he consumed at the bar."

Keri shrugged. "If they say so. It's not the sort of thing you keep track of — unless you're cheap, I suppose."

Regan let that lie, confident that at least one of the jurors brought out the calculator when it was time to split the check. "And after three drinks, you were concerned about Mr McCoy's ability to get home?"

"I don't know how much he'd had."

"Well, we've heard testimony that he hadn't had a drink before he arrived at the bar. And that he'd had three drinks and no more _at_ the bar."

"I don't know."

"All right," Regan said easily. "But Mr McCoy was apparently intoxicated enough that you were concerned enough to make sure he got home."

"Yes."

"You hailed a cab. At 8.37 pm."

"It might have been. It was around then."

"According to the voucher you submitted for reimbursement to the District Attorney's office, it was at 8.37 pm."

A small, upright line appeared between Keri's eyebrows. "Then that's when it was. I thought … I mean, I was trying to make sure my boss got home safely. It seemed okay to use the office voucher."

"You hailed a cab driven by Mr Enrico Rodriguez," Regan said.

"I didn't ask his name," Keri said a little tartly.

"Fair enough," Regan said calmly. "You had no reason to. Your honor, I tender to the court the cab-fare voucher submitted by this witness for reimbursement, which records the hack number of the driver, along with documentation from the New York City Taxi and Limousine Commission identifying Mr Enrico Rodriguez as the registered holder of that license."

"I fail to see the relevance, Ms Markham," Judge Wright said.

"It will become apparent, your honor."

The judge looked at the prosecution table. "Mr Cutter?"

Cutter half rose. "I think we can all agree that the witness and Mr McCoy traveled by taxi. I have no objection to the defense stipulating which particular cab it was."

Judge Wright nodded. "Go ahead, Ms Markham."

"Thank you, your honor." Regan handed up the documents, and moved back to the center of the court, a little closer to Keri this time. "What happened then?"

Keri was wary now. "Mr McCoy was … intoxicated. The cab driver had to help him out of the cab."

"You haven't mentioned that before, in your statements or depositions. Why not?"

"It didn't seem important."

_Or it didn_ _'_ _t support your story, but now you know I'm able to call the cab driver you figure you can't contradict what he says._ Regan kept her face pleasantly expressionless, and nodded. "And then?"

Whatever Keri said next would be a lie, and Regan knew it just as Cutter had known it. He hadn't been able to ask his witness a question that would lead to perjury. But _Regan_ could, could ask questions expecting Keri Dyson to lie because her whole intention was to expose the lies.

Small problem, though — Cutter had been very careful not to ask anything about what happened after McCoy and Keri caught the cab, and Judge Wright glanced over at the prosecution table. "Mr Cutter, did I hear you clear your throat?"

Cutter bobbed up. "No, your honor. It appears to me the People have no grounds to object, as the witness alluded to events occurring between leaving the bar and the next morning in her answers on direct."

Wright gave him a long, level look. "You may answer the question, Ms Dyson."

And _now_ Regan could see more than wariness, could see alarm and calculation, in Keri's eyes. "I helped Mr McCoy upstairs to his apartment."

"And?"

"We went inside. I — Mr McCoy was … he had the wrong idea about why I'd taken him home. I tried to leave. He was insistent. He …" Keri's eyes filled with tears, and she wiped her lower lashes with her fingers before they could fall. "He struck me. Several times. I managed to get away and I ran out and got away."

"Did you call the police?"

"No. I didn't want … I didn't want to get him in trouble."

"He seems to be in quite considerable trouble right now, Keri."

"Well, he … at the time, I felt … I felt … you know how it is." Keri tried a watery smile at the jury. "I felt stupid, for being there. I know that it's never a woman's fault, but it feels different, when it's you."

Regan had to give Keri that one. It was a good answer, and Regan would have bet there was at least one woman on the jury who'd found herself standing in the shower trying to scrub the sense of shame away and who had never told a soul about the guy who'd 'gotten the wrong idea'.

"But the next day, you went to see Mr McCoy. You weren't scared of him?"

"Of course I was scared," Keri said, a little sharply. "But it was daytime, in the office, and I figured he'd be sober."

"Why did you go to see Mr McCoy and not to the police, or go down to the complaints room and swear out a statement?"

"I guess …" Keri paused, and then shrugged a little. "I guess I still thought, well, he's Mr McCoy. I wanted … I wanted him to make it right, but I didn't want … didn't want the whole office up-ended. I mean, he's famous. He tries all the high-profile cases. Isn't it better that murderers and terrorists go to jail?"

"So when," Regan said, still in the same calm, even tone, "you told Mr McCoy that unless he gave you a transfer to Narcotics you'd have him charged with assaulting you, that was for the sake of the District Attorney's Office?"

"That's not what I said to him. I told him he should make it right, and he _offered_ to transfer me to Narcotics. If I didn't press charges against him."

"Right before he called me in and ordered me to write up a complaint against him for exactly those charges? Does that make sense to you, Keri? Because it doesn't make sense to me."

"I — I don't know why he did that."

"Maybe he doesn't like being blackmailed. But let's back this up a little bit, Keri, back to Mr McCoy's apartment. You helped him get up to his front door, you said."

"Yes."

"Who else was in the elevator with the two of you?"

"I — I don't know what you mean."

"Was the doorman in the elevator with you?"

"I — he might have been. I was concentrating on Mr McCoy."

"So it would surprise you to learn that the doorman, Mr Joseph Evatt, was in the elevator because he was concerned at Mr McCoy's state of extreme intoxication — after just three drinks — and was assisting you help him upstairs?"

Dyson looked past Regan at Mike Cutter. Regan followed her gaze. _Was Cutter going to object_?

Cutter sat motionless, attentive gaze fixed on the witness stand.

"That's not what I remember," Keri said.

"That's what Mr Evatt remembers and will tell this court," Regan said. She reached back and felt McCoy put a folder in her hand. "And what he said in this sworn statement."

"Mr Cutter," Judge Wright said sharply.

"Ah …" Cutter rose slowly to his feet. "I gather Ms Markham is seeking to introduce this evidence under the principle of limited admissibility?"

"Mr Cutter is correct," Regan said. "I will seek to call both Mr Evatt and Mr Rodriguez, once the People's case is concluded, and at that time I will ask your honor for a jury direction that their evidence is considered in full. However, at this time, I seek only to impeach the witness."

"I'm afraid I can't see a grounds for me to object, your honor," Cutter said.

"Very well," Judge Wright said. He turned to the jury. "Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, the defense is referring to statements made by witnesses who have not testified before this court. Because of that, you have had no opportunity to form an opinion on their truthfulness or reliability. You cannot consider their evidence as proof of any facts or events, but only as a factor in assessing the reliability of the witness currently on the stand." He leaned back in his seat. "Continue, Ms Markham."

"Thank you, your honor." Regan moved a little closer to Keri in the witness stand, a little closer to the jury. "Mr Evatt helped Mr McCoy upstairs with you, and into Mr McCoy's apartment, didn't he?"

"No," Keri said instantly, and then reconsidered. "That is … he might have come upstairs. But not inside. Not while I was there."

"But he was inside while you were there, Keri. He came inside with the both of you, and he was so concerned about Mr McCoy that he called Mr McCoy's doctor."

"Maybe after I left he did," Keri said, and Regan felt the scales tip. This was the point when every police officer knew that they were going to get home, even if there was a long way yet to go to get there. The point when the suspect started offering explanations, started trying to fill in the cracks and contradictions.

"And stayed with Mr McCoy until the doctor arrived," Regan went on steadily, as if Keri hadn't spoken. "Doctor Margolis, who said in his statement that when he reached Mr McCoy's apartment, Mr McCoy was unconscious, Mr Evatt was waiting for the doctor to arrive, and there was no-one else at all in the apartment."

"That must all have happened after I left," Keri said stubbornly.

"Is that your testimony, Keri? That Mr Evatt, who has no reason at all to lie, didn't go upstairs to Mr McCoy's apartment and call a doctor for him until after you left?"

"I don't know what reason he would have to lie," Keri said. "Or to be confused."

Regan nodded, as if considering it. "Confused. Okay, I can see that. Maybe he didn't get concerned until he saw you leave and realized Mr McCoy was on his own."

"That must be what happened."

"Funny he didn't remember seeing you leave, though, isn't it? Since you must have been in quite a state. Those bruises are still pretty shocking. You'd think Mr Evatt would remember seeing a woman who'd been beaten as badly as you say you were, running out of his building."

"Maybe he only saw my back," Keri said. "Maybe he was looking away."

"Maybe," Regan said, nodding again. "I mean, those injuries … I'd remember them, if I saw them." She turned back to the bar table and McCoy had the file ready for her. Flipping it open, Regan strolled back towards Keri, reading aloud. "Cracked cheekbone, contusions, trauma to the lower and upper lip …" She paused. "Oh, my mistake, this is your medical report from June 2000. When you laid charges against Harold Grafton. But you dropped those charges, didn't you? Was that before or after you were hired at Bentley and Grafton?"

"You can't ask me about that!" Keri said.

Belatedly, Cutter rose to his feet. "Objection —"

"Mr Cutter opened this door on direct, your honor," Regan said.

Judge Wright nodded. "He did. But I remind the jury again that none of this is evidence of facts or events. You can _only_ consider it as it bears on this witnesses credibility."

"Thank you, your honor." Regan dropped the file back on the bar table and McCoy handed her the next. "Here we are. Cracked cheekbone, contusions, trauma to the lower and upper lip …the same doctor, I see. As well as the same injuries. Oh, my mistake. This is from May 2004. Just before Barry Norrell hired you to work at N.W.N, despite your lack of experience in corporate law. I have a statement here from Mr Norrell, Keri, about you threatening to charge him with assault if he didn't give you that job."

"That is _not_ true."

"Maybe _this_ is the right file," Regan said, as McCoy held out the third set of documents for her to take. "It looks like it. Looks just like the other two. Oh, except for the date. August 2005. That's funny, that's right when you jumped three pay-grades in the move from appeals to the Identity Fraud Bureau. Oh, here we are, May 3rd, 2007. Same injuries, same doctor. Which is odd, since he's been practicing down in Baltimore for four years."

"I don't know where you think you got those —"

"From the men willing to testify that you blackmailed them into hiring or promoting you, Keri, that's where I got them." Which was not entirely true, certainly not for the first file which Rey Curtis had effectively stolen, but then, Keri Dyson was under oath, not Regan.

"I never —"

"But you did." Regan closed the file, taking the last step that brought her right by the witness stand. "I can see how it happened," she said gently. "Grafton really beat on you, didn't he? And you went straight to the police. And he told you that he was willing to make it worth your while to drop the charges."

"He said I'd never prove it," Keri said softly. "He said he could get a lawyer who'd run rings around the DA's Office and I'd end up branded a liar and never work in New York again."

"What an asshole," Regan said sympathetically. "And I guess after, what, three or four years working for him, you were pretty desperate to get out, weren't you?"

Keri nodded. "But he wouldn't give me a decent reference. Every job I went for …"

"And it occurred to you there was a way out. I don't know, Keri, I might have started thinking along the same lines myself, in your position. Your back was really to the wall."

"It was," Keri whispered.

"And after the first time, it's always easier, isn't it? And it wasn't really doing any harm, was it? You got the job, you got the promotion, but you did deserve them, after all. After what you'd been through. And you never got those guys into any trouble, did you?"

Long ago, her first month with Highway Patrol, Officer Elish Reagan had pulled over a car with a broken tail-light on one of the long, winding roads through the forest that she was responsible for. She hadn't known that the driver was armed; she hadn't known that he was driving unlicensed; she hadn't known that he had enough marijuana in the trunk of his car to earn him six years, easy. When he'd floored the accelerator rather than pull over, Reagan had given chase, light and sirens and her partner on the radio calling in their location.

Broken Tail-Light hadn't known the area, or maybe he'd just taken a wrong turn. He'd gone up a driveway instead of a turn-off and Reagan's traffic stop had turned into a hostage situation with a little old lady in a rickety wooden house and an armed felon shouting threats through the closed door.

Backup had been an hour away. _Keep him talking,_ her sergeant had said over the radio. _Keep him talking, keep him calm._

So she'd rung the one infallible source of law enforcement advice in her life, her great-grandfather, and he'd told her that there was always a point, every criminal, every crime, where all they want is for it just to stop, for everything to go back the way it was before they made that first bad decision that had led them to the dead-end where they were trapped.

She'd talked and talked through the closed door, talked until she was hoarse, and eventually she'd heard, from inside the house, _I didn_ _'_ _t mean for this to happen_ and she'd known they were at that point, the point her Gran-Da had told her to look for: the point where the right words, at the right time, in the right tone, would end with guns and lies and denials being finally laid down.

Regan looked at Keri Dyson and knew they were at that point right now.

"It just kind of got away from you this time, didn't it?" Regan asked softly. "You didn't mean to be here. You didn't mean for Mr McCoy to be on trial. You didn't mean to lie to me, or to Mr Cutter, or to the jury. Just one little white lie to Mr McCoy, and it would be over. It just got away from you, that's all."

"I didn't — it wasn't —"

For a heartbeat Regan had the horrible feeling that she'd miscalculated, that she'd pushed Keri too soon, or in the wrong way. That she'd be forced to leave the jury with Keri's denials ringing in their ears.

"No-one was supposed to get hurt!" Keri burst out, and buried her face in her hands.

* * *

 

.oOo.


	44. Cards On The Table

Regan turned away from the witness stand. McCoy was looking down at his hands folded on the bar table in front of him. Cutter was staring straight ahead, stony-faced. Only Connie Rubirosa caught Regan's gaze. The ADA couldn't smile, not with the People's case brought tumbling down, but she gave Regan a tiny nod.

Regan couldn't smile, either. She knew she should be buoyed along on a wave of triumph, should want to punch the air and grin from ear-to-ear, but all she could feel was a sense of relief so profound it left her hollow and numb.

_And I_ _'_ _m not done yet._

"Keri," she said quietly, "are you admitting that your testimony against Mr McCoy is false?"

Miserably, Keri Dyson nodded.

"Are you admitting that Mr McCoy didn't in fact assault you at all?"

Keri nodded again.

"Thank you, Keri. Your honor, I have no further questions for this witness."

"Mr Cutter, do you seek to redirect?"

Mike Cutter shook his head. "No, your honor," he said tonelessly.

"Very well. Ms Dyson, you've just admitted to several very serious charges. The bailiffs will take you into custody for the time being."

Keri nodded, and let the bailiff escort her out.

"Approach, your honor?" Cutter said.

Wright waved him forward, including Regan in the gesture.

"Your honor," Cutter said quietly, "the People are ready to go _nol pros_ at this time."

"And I'm ready to dismiss your case with prejudice attached," Wright said. "And don't think that offering to withdraw the prosecution at this point is going to save you, and your office, from criticism from the bench."

"Your honor, I can honestly tell you that at this point, that is not my concern." Cutter said, and Regan thought he was telling the truth

"Your honor," she said, "There is the question of my client's reputation. If you dismiss the charges, or the D.A.'s Office withdraws at this point, suspicion will always remain that Mr. McCoy was the beneficiary of the old boy's club, or of some kind of legal trickery. I want him acquitted by the jury. I want absolutely, unquestionably, no doubt about his innocence – not just his lack of legally provable guilt."

"I'll make a statement to that effect," Cutter offered. "Apologize on behalf of the office – "

"Arthur Branch will have your _hide_ ," Regan said.

He gave her a tiny smile. "I know," he said, and shrugged. "But really – is the view from the 10th floor _so_ much better?"

"I don't think you need to worry about Mr McCoy's reputation, Ms Markham," Judge Wright said. "It's not as if this is the result of some conversation in chambers that no-one knows about. About twenty reporters just heard the complaining witness admit the charges were a fabrication from whole cloth."

"Nonetheless, your honor," Regan said. "I have three witnesses prepared to testify as to the events of that evening, witnesses who will prove the assault never took place. _Could_ never have taken place."

Cutter paused. "The People have no objection to Ms Markham calling her witnesses, your honor. In the interests of justice."

"Very well." They stepped back, and Judge Wright turned to the jury. "Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you've just heard some extraordinary testimony. Based on the admissions by Ms Dyson, I would be prepared to entertain a motion by the defense to dismiss the charges, and you could all go home. However, the defense wishes to call witnesses to verify the statements used to impeach the previous witness, and I'm going to allow it. Do you understand?"

One of the jurors raised his hand. "Uh, your honor?"

"Yes?"

"So we can consider what they said as evidence now?"

"You can," Judge Wright said, and the juror nodded. The judge turned back to the court. "Ms Markham, you didn't make an opening statement at the beginning of the trial. Do you wish to make one now?"

"Yes, your honor," Regan said. "A brief one."

The judge nodded, and she turned to the jury. She couldn't remember a single word of what she'd practiced, what McCoy had coached her in, but it didn't matter. That had been a speech for a lawyer, a speech to pick apart Cutter's case and persuade the jury to believe her own.

Instead, Regan faced the jury. She put her hands in her pockets and just talked to them. "You're probably wondering why we're still here." One or two of the jurors nodded, and Regan smiled at them. "You've just heard Keri Dyson admit that the charges are entirely made up, and you've just heard the judge say he's willing to dismiss the charges. You all want to go home. Honestly, I'd like to go home too. But the thing is, as you probably guessed from some of the questions I asked Keri Dyson, I can prove Mr McCoy never laid a finger on her even without her admitting it. And I'd like to do that, before we all get out of here, so that no-one, looking back at this trial, can ever say that maybe Keri Dyson was badgered into admitting her lies. No-one can say I scared her, or threatened her, or confused her. I want it all on the record, for Mr McCoy. If the judge dismisses the charges, Mr McCoy is not guilty. I want everyone to know that he's not just _not guilty_. I want everyone to know he's innocent. So I'll ask you to bear with me a little while here, and I'll get through it as fast as I can. Okay?"

More nods. They were with her now, Regan could feel it. She could have rested her case and even without Cutter's offer of _nolle prosequi_ , the jury would acquit.

She held to her promise to the jury of getting through it quickly. Enrico Rodriguez, then Joe Evatt, and then Doctor Margolis, each took the stand and Regan walked them through the evening matter-of-factly, making sure the jury — and every reporter in the courtroom — knew that there had never been a moment when Jack McCoy had been alone with Keri Dyson, never even the possibility that he'd struck her. Cutter declined to cross-examine each witness, looking sicker and sicker to his stomach as the morning wore on.

Finally Dr Margolis stepped down from the witness stand.

"The defense rests, your honor, and thank you for the indulgence."

Cutter rose to his feet. "Your honor, at this time, _nolle prosequi_." That was all he was required to say by law and convention, but he kept talking. "We accept, given the evidence presented to this court, that the charges are unfounded, that they should never have been brought, and on behalf of the office of the District Attorney, I offer sincere apologies to Mr McCoy for the injury done to him by this groundless prosecution, to the court, and to the jury."

Regan rose as well. "Your honor, as much as I appreciate Mr Cutter's public admission of Mr McCoy's innocence, at this time defense moves for a dismissal of all charges, with prejudice."

Judge Wright nodded. "So ordered," he said. "Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, the prosecution has made the admission that there is no evidence to sustain the charge against Mr McCoy. Mr Cutter has sought to formally withdraw the prosecution against him. I am dismissing all charges against Mr McCoy. Do you understand?"

The same juror as before raised his hand. "So we don't get to give a verdict?"

The judge shook his head. "No. I thank you for your time, and for your patience, but given the evidence presented to the court, the admissions by the main witness for the prosecution, and Mr Cutter's decision not to continue, there's no need for a verdict."

"But you're finding him innocent, right?" the juror persisted.

"Not guilty," the judge corrected, "but yes. Mr McCoy is a free man."

"Your honor," Regan said. "Is there any harm in the jury being polled?"

Judge Wright's eyebrows went up. "Without a verdict?"

"Court of public opinion, your honor."

"Very well," he said. "It's irregular, but I'll allow it. Bailiff?"

The jury now looked thoroughly confused as the bailiff came forward with the jury roll. One by one, she read out the names of the jurors, and asked each one if they found the defendant guilty or not guilty.

Regan sat at the bar table, holding on to her pen so hard her fingers went white, as eleven voices said, one after the other, _not guilty, not guilty, not guilty_ _…_

"Innocent," said the last juror, firmly, and a little laugh rippled around the courtroom. Even Judge Wright's mouth twitched up at the corner as he thanked the jury and released them.

The gavel banged down. The court rose.

It was over.

Regan let herself look at McCoy, but he was twisted around to look back into the observers' section, frowning. Regan realized he was looking for his sister. "Jack," she said.

The look he gave her was distant. _We_ _'_ _re not done with this_ , he'd said on the way into the courtroom.

_He_ _'_ _s not a man who forgives. What he sees as betrayal – he's not a man who forgives._

"You'd better make sure Kibre is fully appraised of what happened today," McCoy said, and then he was out of his chair and gone.

* * *

.oOo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In fact, I believe that in New York, the term nolle prosequi ("we shall no longer prosecute") is not used by a prosecutor to indicate the dropping of charges, but I like the Latin too much not to use it.


	45. In Front Of The Cameras

Connie saw Jack McCoy get to his feet and head towards the back of the court. He only made it a few feet before the journalists and cameramen closed in with shouts of _Mr McCoy! Mr McCoy, how does it feel_ _…_ _?_

McCoy wasn't known for his patience with the press at the best of times, and this, Connie figured, was not the best of times. _He_ _'_ _ll blow up and tell them all where to get off and undo everything that Regan managed to do for him today._

_Everything Mike_ _**let** _ _her do._

She got to her feet and raised her voice. "Ladies and gentlemen, I have a statement on behalf of the District Attorney's Office."

It got their attention on her and off McCoy. Connie watched McCoy push past the last of them and disappear into the crowd. _Good_. Except now she had to actually _say_ something …

She opened her mouth and felt Cutter's hand on her shoulder. "I'll give the statement," he told the reporters. "The District Attorney's Office deeply regrets bringing these completely unjustified charges against EADA McCoy. The lies told by the complaining witness are an explanation, but not an excuse. I would like to congratulate Ms Regan Markham, currently on leave from her position as Assistant District Attorney, for the work she has done bringing the true facts of the case to light and preventing a miscarriage of justice. I also accept my own responsibility in pursuing this case with more zeal than judgment. And yes, you can quote me on all of that."

They had to force their way through the reporters and down the aisle, Cutter batting away further questions. The corridor was crowded as well. Connie spied the open door to a conference room and ducked inside, tugging Cutter to follow her with a hand on his arm.

He shut the door and leaned back against it.

"You didn't have to do that," she said.

He gave her the ghost of a grin. "Better my face on the evening news than yours," he said. "It was my fault, after all. You tried to tell me."

"You were …" Connie tried to be kind and honest at the same time. "Convinced."

"Was I convinced, Connie, or did I convince myself?"

"What really matters is what you did _today_ , Mike."

He gave a little bitter laugh. "I doubt Arthur Branch will see it that way."

"Is that what really matters?"

Cutter was silent a moment, studying his toes, and then looked up, his gaze clear. "No," he said quietly. "No, that's not what really matters. Thank you, Connie. I know you won't want to work with me again, after this, but — thank you. I'm glad you were the one on this case."

"I'm glad I was, too," Connie said. "And don't be so quick to make assumptions about what I might or might not want to do. But for now, we should head back to Hogan Place."

"And Arthur," Cutter said glumly, but he stepped away from the door and reached for the handle.

Connie took his arm. "May as well get it over with, Cut-throat."

"Connie, I think it might be time for that nickname to be given a decent burial, what do you think?"

"Sure, Mike," she said. "Sure."

The corridor had cleared a little. When they reached the front door, Connie saw why: Tracey Kibre was holding a press conference on the front steps and every camera in the vicinity was riveted on _her_.

"I don't intend to try this case in the court of public opinion," she was saying as Connie and Cutter passed her. "But I will say that I am _very_ confident of a conviction. It is absolutely essential to the proper function of the justice system that the public are able to have confidence in the integrity of the District Attorney's Office. Today we saw that confidence in Mr McCoy reaffirmed by the revelations in court, but I will also say that the prosecution of Mr McCoy demonstrates that we do no favors for our own. I guarantee you Ms Dyson will answer the charges against her with no special treatment."

"She's helping you out as much as she can," Connie said to Cutter as they made their way down the steps.

"Making it look like I was just doing my job," Cutter said sourly.

"Mike." Connie took his elbow and made him stop. "Just … learn from it. Do better, _be_ better, next time."

"If I get —"

"Mr Cutter." It was Regan Markham, a couple of steps above them. She'd taken off her jacket, in deference no doubt to the warmth of the midday sun, and Connie thought she looked as if she'd shed the label _lawyer_ along with the jacket. "I wanted to thank you."

"I did what I had to do," Cutter said, looking away.

Regan took another step down until she was looking at him eye to eye. "You and I both know that not everyone would have done it," she said, and there was an authority in her voice that didn't belong to a junior ADA who was talking to one of Narcotic's top prosecutors. "Don't sell yourself short, Mike. You did the right thing, and it wasn't an easy thing to do."

"You did pretty good yourself," Cutter said. "Good work on the cross."

Regan shrugged. "You got out of my way for it."

"I could have broken your flow, sure. But I didn't see anywhere you went far enough over impeachment for the judge to sustain an objection. It was nice work, Ms Markham, take the compliment. You've got a bright future ahead of you at Hogan Place."

Regan looked down and away and Cutter frowned.

"You're not coming back?" he asked.

"It's out of my hands," Regan said.

"You think Arthur would hold a grudge?" Connie asked in surprise.

"Not Arthur," Regan said. She looked back at them and smiled, bright and false. "We'll see. We'll see what happens."

* * *

.oOo.


	46. Open Your Eyes

McCoy pushed past the reporters.

He'd been hopeful that morning, before he and Regan had arrived at the courthouse. Once it had become clear that Mike Cutter was laying the groundwork for _Regan_ _'_ _s_ case with his questions to Keri Dyson, hope had strengthened to confidence.

The minute Dyson had started offering explanations for the holes in her story, McCoy had known they were going to win. The rest was a formality, a foregone conclusion, as Regan gently and sympathetically walked Dyson all the way up to a confession. He'd seen exactly the same approach a dozen, a _hundred_ times, standing on the other side of the glass while Lennie Briscoe or Rey Curtis or Ed Green or Mike Logan, or, sometimes, Antia Van Buren sat with a suspect and told them how it was all completely understandable, how anyone would have done the same thing or at least wanted to. _It would have pissed me off too_ , or _those girls walking around with everything on display, what_ _'_ _s a red-blooded man to do_ , or _you know, when my kids start acting up I want to —_ or any one of a thousand other variations.

McCoy himself would have gone hard at that point, if he'd been cross-examining a witness whose story was coming apart around them right there in the witness box. He would have homed in on the contradictions, made the accusations right in the witness's face, called them a liar in exactly so many words.

People get angry when they're under attack, and angry people make mistakes.

_That doesn_ _'_ _t just apply to witnesses_. McCoy had turned to Regan as Judge Wright left the courtroom, to thank her, to tell her how well she'd done, and caught sight of Lisbeth in the observers' section out of the corner of his eye. Fury came boiling back without warning, at Cutter for forcing Lisbeth to revisit a childhood no-one should have to remember, at Regan for her end-run around his explicit instructions, at both of them for _knowing_ , damn them, and he'd never be able to look at either of them without knowing that they knew, without seeing the pity they'd try to hide.

The thought of Tracey Kibre was a lifeline and he used it to send Regan away before he could say anything he couldn't take back, and that neither of them would be able to forget.

_Anger makes you make mistakes._

And then he had to get to Lisbeth and try to make whatever amends he could for failing to protect her. _Yet again._ The reporters, of course, wanted his comments, and thank _God_ for Connie Rubirosa drawing their attention away from him long enough for McCoy to get past them and down the aisle.

He could see Lisbeth already pushing through the doors of the courtroom and he lengthened his stride, closing the distance.

"Lisbeth."

"Jack. I'm sorry, I know you didn't want me to —"

His little sister apologizing to _him_ was just about the last thing McCoy could bear to hear right at that moment. He drew her to him and wrapped his arms around her. "I'm the one who's sorry. You should never have had to play any part in this."

"I wanted to be here —"

Over Lisbeth's shoulder McCoy saw a reporter approaching and he let her go, steering her through the doors with his arm around her shoulders. "Let's get out of here. I know a shortcut."

He steered her to the side entrance that was usually used to allow undercover cops and witnesses in federal protection to come and go without being seen. McCoy was well known to the guards, and they let him and Lisbeth through without question.

One enterprising journalist had guessed that was the way he'd take. "Mr. McCoy, Mr. McCoy – " the young woman called, "Where are you going?"

"Back to work," McCoy said shortly. He pulled Lisbeth past the reporter and into a cab, giving the driver Lisbeth's address. "After I get you home."

"Back to work?" Lisbeth said. "Just like nothing happened?"

"Nothing _did_ happen," McCoy said sharply. "That's just been proved in court."

He could feel her pull away from him, shrinking into herself, and cursed silently. "Lisbeth, I'm sorry. It's just been —"

"You know, I don't like to argue with Bill. He raises his voice and I feel myself curling up inside. And he's a good man, Jack, he's never – he _would_ never – raise his hand to me. But I'm always waiting. It's like the poison got deep down inside of me and it'll always be there."

McCoy closed his eyes. "Jesus, Beth, I'm —"

"We're both _sorry._ For Chrissakes, Jack, we're both _sorry_ and we never talk about it and maybe, maybe we should."

He turned his head and looked out the window at the city street crawling past. "I don't talk about it. I'm sorry Regan forced you to."

"Regan? I thought her name was Connie."

He looked back at her. "Connie?"

"The tall girl from the DA's office. With the legs. She came to my house with that boy, the skinny one."

"Mike Cutter."

"That's him."

"But not Regan?" Lisbeth shook her head. "And what did she do, Beth, to make you talk about it?"

"She told me about her sister," Lisbeth said quietly. "You remember … you remember Mom painting her face so thick? Taking half an hour to do it?"

McCoy nodded. "To hide the bruises."

"She told me about her sister doing the same thing."

"Connie? Is she — did she tell you her name, her sister's name? Where she is?"

Lisbeth smiled. "She said he's in jail now, so you can get off that white horse, Jack."

"Good." He leaned back in the seat. "Good for her." He raked his fingers through his hair. "Mike Cutter should _never_ have put you through that, all the same."

"I was glad to." Lisbeth's mouth quirked up at the corner. "Not the right word, maybe. But to help you, I would have done worse." She paused. "Why didn't you tell me? What you were thinking, what was really going on?"

"Jesus, Beth, how could I tell you I'd started taking my plays from the S.O.B's playbook?"

"And after? When you knew you hadn't?"

He shook his head. "It's not something I talk about. It's not something _we_ talk about, is it?"

"Maybe we should." She paused. "You're angry with me, aren't you?"

"No. I could never be angry with my little sister."

"You could never _lie_ to your little sister, not successfully, anyway."

"I just —" McCoy looked out the window again. "It's not something I ever wanted anyone to know. It's our personal business, Beth, not something to be bandied around over the water-cooler at One Hogan Place."

"Jack, people _always_ knew. The neighbors knew. The cops in Dad's precinct knew. Do you think your _teachers_ didn't know, all those black eyes and split lips? _Everyone_ knew. They just pretended not to, so they didn't have to do anything. It's never been a family secret."

"Just a family shame."

She reached out and took his hand. "His shame. Not ours. Not _yours_."

"You say that, but have you ever told Bill?"

"Not yet," Lisbeth said, and smiled at him. "But the night, as they say, is young."

They were turning into Berkeley Place. "Do you want me to come in with you? Would it — help?"

"Thank you," Lisbeth said. She squeezed his hand. "But this is a conversation I think I have to have on my own. And you have things to do yourself, Jack. People to talk to."

She was right. He had to see Arthur, get his badge back. Had to find something to say to Mike Cutter, too, because if the young man avoided getting pink-slipped over his antics in court today, he was going places in the DA's Office and they'd have to find a way to work together.

Had to face Regan, knowing what she knew and what she'd done with it.

_People always knew,_ Lisbeth had said. _All those black eyes and split lips_ _…_

Jesus Christ, Regan had known what she was looking at when she'd looked through his photo album back in January. She'd dropped the subject and he'd thought he was reprieved, but Regan was a cop first and a lawyer second and no police officer in this century could have looked at McCoy's family photos and not known what was going on behind closed doors.

She'd let it drop out of respect for his privacy and never raised it again … until she had to.

Back in Chicago, as Lisbeth had said, people had pretended not to know, to avoid having to act. To avoid having to say out loud that Officer McCoy was breaking one of the laws he was sworn to uphold, an allegation that could have had serious personal consequences at that time, in that place. They'd taken an easy out.

But taking an easy out had never been Regan Markham's style.

Once upon a time, he'd sat in a conference room and listened to a young cop explain why he'd committed a murder. Why he'd felt he had to shoot dead the abusive husband of the woman in uniform who rode beside him in a blue-and-white, day after day. _She_ _'_ _s my partner_ , he'd said. _That_ _'_ _s the bottom line. She's my partner._ Steve Felton, that had been his name. Steve Felton had killed a man to protect his partner and he'd taken the rap to protect her and he'd gone to jail and left his own family without a husband, a father, a wage-earner.

Because she was his partner, and that was the bottom line.

"You're right," McCoy said, as the cab drew to a stop. "I do have people to talk to. But, Beth — call if you need to."

"I will," she said, giving him a quick hug and then opening the taxi's door. "I will if you will, Jack."

It took longer than McCoy would have liked to get back across the bridge and into Manhattan. Finally he was near enough to One Hogan Place to shove a handful of notes at the driver and walk the rest of the way.

He had to sign in, like any visitor, and it was almost enough to set his temper off again. Almost — the guard gave him a grin and a _good to see you back, Mr McCoy_ , and McCoy deliberately let himself be mollified.

Quite possibly, the sign-in desk had been given instructions to call upstairs when McCoy arrived. Certainly, Colleen Petraky was waiting when the elevator doors opened. She barely gave him the chance to step out of the elevator before she stood on tiptoe to throw her arms around him. "Oh, Mr McCoy!"

"Now, now, Colleen." He returned her embrace, having to stoop to do so. She was a tiny woman, as bird-boned and fragile as she was granite-willed and implacable. "Careful of my reputation."

Over her shoulder he saw Arthur Branch standing in the doorway of his office, disentangled himself from Colleen. "Colleen, I need to thank some people. Can you book a restaurant, one with tablecloths, for Friday night? I'll get you the names of —"

She was already nodding. "I've already made a reservation for ten at _La Chenille_ for Friday at 6.30. I can change it if —"

"You are a marvel," McCoy said, "and I'd be lost without you."

"No need to thank me," Colleen said.

McCoy studied her. "You've already bought yourself a bunch of flowers on my credit card, haven't you?" he said, and laughed when she nodded. "I hope they were top-of-the-line."

"It'd be irresponsible for me to let people think you're a cheapskate," Colleen pointed out.

Arthur was showing signs of impatience. McCoy slipped past Colleen with one final pat to her shoulder. Arthur stepped back and McCoy walked in to his office.

Arthur closed the door behind him. "Well, Jack," he said. "All's well that ends well, isn't that how it goes?"

There were a number of things McCoy could have said to that, starting with _you son-of-a-bitch_ and running through to _you can take your job and shove it_ , and Arthur must have seen some of them in his expression, because he swallowed hard.

"Look, Jack, you came in here demanding to plead guilty. The only reason you had the opportunity to exonerate yourself in open court is because I wouldn't let you."

McCoy stared at him. "Are you expecting me to _thank_ you?"

"You know I couldn't do you any favors."

McCoy thought back to that terrible morning when he'd thought that his life as he knew it was over, when he'd thought that the man he thought he was no longer existed. He'd been barely able to choke the words out, telling Arthur what had happened, barely able to think through the fog and pain of what he now knew had been the after-effect of being drugged. "You don't want me to thank you," he said. "You just want me not to _sue_ you."

"Now, Jack —"

McCoy cut him off. "Duty of care, Arthur, that's it, isn't it? It's about to be all over the news that I was arguably legally incompetent when I ordered Regan to institute those charges —"

"You looked fine to me, Jack," Arthur said. "And no-one's suggested Ms Markham was less than her usual self."

McCoy snorted. "Regan would indict a ham sandwich if I told her to."

"If you're saying that Ms Markham's professional judgment is adversely affected by _you_ , Jack, you might want to rethink that, before I take too close a look into _why_." He shrugged. "No, I don't think you have a case."

"But you're worried I might think it'd be fun to find out."

Arthur turned and scooped something from his desk: two leather billfolds. He held them out, and McCoy took them. Glancing down, he realized he held his badge, and Regan's.

"In or out, Jack," Arthur said. "Make a choice."

* * *

.oOo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of this chapter is from Patty Griffin's song "Forgiveness" :
> 
> "I heard them ringing the bells  
> In heaven and hell  
> They got a secret  
> They're getting ready to tell  
> It's falling from the sky  
> Calling from the graves  
> Open your eyes, boy, I think we are saved."
> 
> The case McCoy refers to is "Shield", episode 17 of season 9.


	47. Indefensible

Regan watched McCoy push past the reporters. _He_ _'_ _s not a man who forgives_.

And what she had done was unforgivable. _Indefensible_.

She couldn't let herself think about it. McCoy had just reminded her that the trial might be over but her job wasn't. It wasn't just about keeping McCoy from going to jail, although a week ago she'd have thought that was as close to a win as she was likely to get. It was about giving him back his life and his career, whole and untarnished, and Tracey Kibre's prosecution of Keri Dyson was part of that.

_As is anything she can manage to get on the evening news cycle about said prosecution._

She shoved her papers into her briefcase and headed for the door. The reporters were focused on Mike Cutter, who was giving a _mea culpa_ that would definitely run first at five. _And will definitely do him no good at all with Arthur Branch._

They ignored Regan as she made her way to the doors. In the hierarchy of press interest, she was once again just McCoy's second chair, someone who might see her jacket sleeve in newspaper if the editors couldn't quite manage to crop it out.

McCoy's second chair, for as long as he was willing to work with her.

At first she'd thought she'd be lucky if that was as long as a whole day. Then a whole case — then she'd started to let herself think that maybe she'd found somewhere to belong, again. Maybe she'd found someone to belong _to_ , the way she'd belonged to Marco, once upon a time.

That had ended in gunfire and blood.

And it had been her fault then, too.

Regan found Kibre in the corridor and discovered that there was nothing she needed to tell the senior prosecutor about Keri Dyson. "I was up the back," Kibre said, and then looked amused as Regan stammered an apology for not realizing. "Relax, Ms Markham, you were paying attention exactly where you should have been. Nice work on that cross."

"Mr McCoy is a good teacher."

"Don't do that," Kibre said. "When someone tells you that you've done a good job, _own_ it. Don't start talking about which man really deserves the credit."

"Or she'll take away your feminist card," said a man's voice from behind Regan.

Regan turned and saw a tall, dark-haired man, a little thinner than she judged he usually was, face marked with recent pain and not quite tan enough for this time of year. _And a cop, no question_.

Then she placed him. "Detective Logan."

"I have to get out front and get _in_ front of the cameras," Kibre said. "We'll talk about your attitude to feminism later, Detective Logan."

Logan held up his hands. "Hey, I'm sensitive, new-age, and reformed. Ask my lesbian partner."

Kibre rolled her eyes. "Later, Detective," she said, pushing past him. "And don't think I'll forget."

"Not for a heartbeat," Logan said to her retreating back. He grinned down at Regan. "I'd give Wheeler the same advice, you know. In fact, I'm pretty sure I gave _you_ the same advice not that long ago. But yanking Kibre's chain never gets old." He put his hand in the small of her back, the absolutely impersonal touch of a police officer steering a bystander out of the line of fire. "Come on, counselor. I'll walk you out."

He steered her through the crowd. Regan, deprived now of anything she was required to do, let him. She supposed she ought to head back to One Hogan Place, get her badge back, and settle in for an afternoon working on whatever her next case was going to be.

Except that next case would depend on what came across Jack McCoy's desk and just who he wanted sitting next to him when he prosecuted it.

It might just be delaying the inevitable but Regan found she couldn't bear to contemplate McCoy standing in the door of her cubicle with the same distant look he'd given her as Judge Wright left the courtroom, saying _I_ _'_ _m going to ask Fitzgerald —_ or Omardi, or Chen, or Connie Rubirosa — _to sit second chair on this one._

But where could she go, if not back to her desk at One Hogan Place?

She'd learned, once upon a time, that you can lose everything, and keep living.

And she'd learned what to do when that happened.

She could fit everything she really needed into one suitcase, after all. She could walk away from what she'd done and what she hadn't, from what she'd become.

Now it was over, there was nothing stopping her.

"Lennie said you used to be a cop," Logan said, startling Regan from her thoughts.

"Yeah, once upon a time."

"What happened?"

"Got shot," Regan said shortly.

"Yeah, me too," Logan said.

"I know, remember? I caught part of that case. Until I got turned into a witness."

"I know," Logan said. "I was making conversation. You know, you say something, I say something, you say something … Or is Jack McCoy rubbing off on you?"

Regan rubbed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. "Yeah," she said. "Yeah, I got shot, yeah, I know you got shot. You got hit hard. So did I."

"And you never made it back?"

_And there it is. Making conversation, my ass._ "No," Regan said. "I never made it back."

"How did you know?" Logan asked. "How did you know you were done?"

"My partner told me," Regan said. "I wanted – I _didn_ _'_ _t_ know — but my partner told me." _Marco, slipping a CD into her hand and turning away before she can say a word, leaving her with the incontrovertible proof and a Post-It note with three words that ends life as she knows it._

"Why?"

Regan shrugged. "I guess he thought one body on my gun was enough."

"I got _more_ than one," Logan said.

"Everybody's different."

He paused. "Wheeler – she's just a kid. I don't think she'd know to tell me."

"Do you want to come back?' Regan asked.

"I don't know."

"Are you scared?"

"No," he said quickly, and then paused. "Yes." Longer pause. "I'd be letting a lot of people down."

"Being on the job when you shouldn't be, that lets more people down."

"Maybe," Logan said. "But Markham – if I'm not a cop, I don't know _what_ I am."

"Yeah," Regan said. "I know the feeling."

They'd reached the doors. Regan could see Cutter and Connie Rubirosa down the steps a little way. She should thank Mike Cutter, she knew. As much as she'd wanted to sock him in the jaw from time to time these past two weeks, he'd put everything on the line today, to do the right thing.

She would thank him.

And then she would go.

* * *

.oOo.


	48. The Highway

When Regan hadn't come back to the office after two hours, McCoy tried calling her.

She didn't answer her cell. When he dialed Abbie's number, the machine picked up. McCoy called Tracey Kibre and got a brusque and slightly annoyed confirmation that Regan had come to find her after the court had risen, and the information that Kibre had left her with Mike Logan when she went to front the press.

Logan was slow to answer his cell.

"I hope I haven't caught you at a bad time, Detective," McCoy said.

"Well, I was just taking a statement from a lawyer who worked out recently that the young woman he gave a promotion to wasn't telling him the whole and entire truth about an evening they'd spent together," Logan said. "But, you know, nothing that can't wait."

"I'm sorry," McCoy said. "I'll let you get back to it. I was trying to track down Regan Markham and Tracey Kibre said you were with her at the courthouse."

"Yeah, I walked her out. Track her down? She's not answering her phone?"

"No," McCoy said. "How was she? When you left her?"

There was a pause at the other end of the line. "Mr McCoy, do I need to be calling hospitals and police stations?"

"No!" It was McCoy's turn to pause. "I don't think so. I hope not."

"What's her number?" Logan asked. McCoy read it to him. "Okay, let me call you back."

It was a long few minutes before the phone on his desk rang.

"Her cell's active," Logan said. "Port Authority. What the hell did you say to her, counselor?"

"It's what I _didn_ _'_ _t_ say," McCoy said, and cradled the phone.

It was the time of day when a taxi would be barely faster than walking. McCoy took the subway and then all but ran the last two blocks to the bus terminal.

The Port Authority was crowded. It was _always_ crowded. New York was the largest and the most enticing and the cruelest city in the world, and every day an unimaginable number of people arrived with stars in their eyes and an uncounted number left with their dreams crushed. Those with money arrived or left through the airports.

Everyone else used the Port Authority Bus Terminal. The young, with stars in their eyes. The old, with moths in their wallets.

And tired ex-cops, with the romance of the open road in their soul.

McCoy hurried through the concourse. If Regan was here, he'd be able to find her. She was tall enough to see through a crowd, and _god_ , he'd only need a glimpse to recognize her …

 _If_ she was here. If she hadn't gotten on a bus in the half-an-hour it had taken him to cover the distance from One Hogan Place.

There was a girl with a guitar, case open in front of her, asking the disinterested passers-by if she was _ever going to get home tonight._

McCoy tossed a quarter into the guitar case and pulled out his cell phone, thinking to call Logan again and get another trace. He fumbled with the address book function, paged past "L" —

To "M".

He pressed _dial_ and heard Regan's phone ring.

He would have been able to see her, just across from an _au bon pain_ outlet, if she'd been standing, but she wasn't. She was close up to the wall of the terminal, sitting on her suitcase, hands folded in her lap and looking straight ahead as the phone in her pocket rang and rang.

And now he could see her, McCoy felt the sense of urgency ebb away. He kept her in view as he went into the bakery and bought two coffees and two bagels. He was ready to go after her if she made a move to one of the departure bays, but she just sat, staring straight ahead, as if she couldn't see the people hurrying past, as if she couldn't hear the girl telling her that _red lights are flashing on the highway._

Until McCoy walked over and stood in front of her. "Hungry?"

Regan looked up slowly, and McCoy realized that she might not have gotten on the bus yet, but she had to come a long way back from where-ever she was going to answer him. "Jack."

"Scoot up," he said, and when she moved automatically, he sat down on the suitcase beside her and handed her one of the coffees. She took it out of the same reflex as she'd moved to make room for him. "Where are you going?"

"Wichita," Regan said. She looked at the Styrofoam cup in her hand, and then took a cautious sip.

"Do you have people there?" McCoy asked.

She shook her head. "I just like the sound of it. Wichita. _Wichita._ It was a toss up between Wichita and Albuquerque. But Wichita —"

"Sounds like car wheels over a road," McCoy said. "Albuquerque is more like a train going over the points. Albuquerque. Albuquerque. Albu _que_ rque."

"I like trains."

"Not as much as you like the open road."

"No," Regan said softly. "Not as much as I like the open road."

"Leaving without saying goodbye? That's not like you."

"It's exactly like me, Jack," Regan said. "Are you going to eat both those bagels?"

He handed her one. "You were going to stand me up at the bar ethic committee?"

"Would it make a difference?" Regan asked. "I know you have an unbreakable case."

"It was a joke. I'm not going to take you to the committee," McCoy said, and Regan looked quickly at him, her expression hopeful. "Not that you weren't completely out of line, by professional standards."

"Professional…" Regan said. "That's something I've been having some trouble being, the past two weeks."

"You and me both." He took a bite from his bagel. "I owe you an apology. I owe you a thank you, too."

"You're not the first defendant to lie to his lawyer. You have a right to your privacy, and I —"

"I was angry," McCoy said. "I was angry because I couldn't – " _protect my sister._

"I know," Regan said. "I have younger siblings, too."

"But your job – your job wasn't to try and do _my_ job. I'm her big brother. You're my lawyer. You broke about fifteen clauses in the code – but I'd be in jail if you hadn't."

"Nah," Regan said. "Jailbreak, remember? Cowboy boots, Stetson hat?"

McCoy smiled. "I wanted you to do what I couldn't," he said. "Protect Lisbeth."

"You protected her plenty," Regan said.

McCoy shook his head. "Not enough. Not from everything."

"You were just a little boy," Regan said.

"You were just a little girl," McCoy said. "Does it make a difference?"

Regan looked away. "I guess we're all fruit from the same poison tree." The girl with the guitar had moved on to _walking the wrong way down the highway_ and Regan winced. "You ever notice how all the songs are about leaving? No-one ever writes songs about coming home."

"Make my bed, and light the light," McCoy said. "I'll arrive late tonight."

Regan smiled. "Blackbird, bye bye. Do you think if I gave that cut-rate Sarah McLachlan ten bucks _she_ _'_ _d_ go bye bye?"

"I have a better idea," McCoy said. He stood, tossed his half-full coffee cup into the bin, and held out his hand. "Let's you and me go."

Regan didn't move. "Where?"

"The nearest place we can get a drink," McCoy said, "First off. After that?" He shrugged. "Maybe Abbie's. Maybe Wichita. It's open to negotiation."

For a long moment he held his breath as Regan looked up at him.

The she gave him her hand and let him help her stand. "You are such a liar, Jack McCoy. As if anything is ever open to negotiation with you."

He picked up her suitcase at the same moment as she reached it for herself. There was a short battle of wills with both of their hands on the handle.

McCoy won. He steered Regan out of the bus terminal, reasonably certain that she wouldn't change her mind so long as her suitcase was in his custody but keeping his other arm around her shoulders just in case.

He knew an Italian restaurant on West 39th with a well-stocked bar and a firm policy against angst-ridden teenage girls with guitars, and McCoy steered Regan in that direction. It wasn't until they were through the door that he remembered just why he knew this particular restaurant: Claire had dragged him to some god-awful concert at Carnegie Hall and afterward they'd had to walk fifteen blocks to find a restaurant with an open table. He'd been in a foul mood about it, thinking about how early he had to be up the next morning to get through the day's work. Claire had refused to humor him, determined to have what she called _a normal night, like normal people._

It hadn't been the worst fight they'd ever had, but it had certainly been in the top ten.

"Tablecloths," Regan said quietly, and McCoy saw the restaurant through her eyes for an instant. Small, candlelit, exposed brick walls and a steel-topped bar with vintage bar stools lined up beside it. An old-fashioned produce scale gestured at an original identity as a delicatessen and the blue-and-white Chinese bowls filled with olives on the bar announced that faux-nostalgia had well and truly crept over the bridge from Brooklyn.

It looked more like a "New York restaurant" than any of the places McCoy usually found himself, including one or two that claimed to have been in existence when New York was the national capital in fact as well as in popular imagination.

"Tablecloths," he agreed, held up two fingers to the waiter, and steered Regan to the bar when the waiter nodded. "Scotch," he said to the bartender's raised eyebrow, and then paused. "No, champagne. Your best bottle, two glasses."

"We're celebrating, Jack?" Regan asked as the bartender nodded and turned to make it happen.

"Of course we are. You won, didn't you?"

"Did I? It didn't altogether feel like it, at the time."

McCoy waited for the bartender to fill their glasses. "Regan, if you're looking for another apology —"

Regan picked up her glass and drained it with a sad lack of respect for the quality of the vintage. "Jesus, Jack, I'm not that stupid."

He ignored her. "Then I'm sorry. I'm sorry I didn't say what I should have in the courtroom today. I'm sorry I put taking care of my sister ahead of your hurt feelings. I'm sorry I wanted to keep at least some part of my personal life private."

Her mouth thinned. "You need to work on the concept of apology."

He took her badge out of his pocket and set it on the bar. "This is yours. If you still want it."

She picked it up and turned it over between her fingers. "In Fraud?"

McCoy ignored the pang that gave him. "If that's what you prefer."

"If that's what _I_ prefer?"

He shrugged. "It won't be easy to fill my second seat, if you go back downstairs. I'm sure I'll manage, though. _Mike Cutter_ could use a little more seasoning."

Regan snorted. "The two of you would kill each other inside of three weeks," she said. "Connie Rubirosa, though — if she can work with Cutter, she can probably handle you."

"Am I such a handful?"

Regan laughed hard enough to choke on her champagne. "Are you such a handful? Jesus, Jack, you're a handful on your _good_ days."

He stared at his glass. "So that's why you're leaving."

"No, that is _not —_ _"_ She set her empty glass down hard enough to make it ring. "Fuck it. And fuck you."

She was reaching for her suitcase and turning to the door and McCoy took her arm. " _No._ "

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the bartender reflected in the big mirror behind the bar, moving toward the phone. _Jesus fucking Christ,_ he thought, and then —

_If someone had picked up the phone in the 1950s, this would be an entirely different conversation._

He let go of Regan's wrist.

She'd seen the bartender reach for the phone at the same moment McCoy had. "It's alright," she said to him, showing her badge in a quick open-and-shut movement that was guaranteed to leave the bartender thinking he'd just seen a police shield. "If anyone is going to get their arm broken tonight, it's this jackass, not me."

The bartender nodded, and Regan put the leather bill-fold back in her pocket.

_Back in her pocket._

"Regan," McCoy said, certain of it now, "you're not leaving."

"I've missed my bus," Regan said, stretching to reach the champagne bottle and carefully filling her glass to the brim.

"You could catch a different one tomorrow. To Wichita. To Albuquerque. To Cheyenne."

She smiled. "Cheyenne sounds nice."

"Augusta. Boise. Tallahassee."

Regan shook her head. "Still Wichita."

"But not until tomorrow."

"Or the day after."

"You're not going to run out on me," McCoy said. "That's not who you are."

She snorted. "How the fuck would you know that?"

"Because —" It was hard to say, harder than anything he'd ever said before. "Because that's who I am. I ran out. On Beth, on our mother. I got a scholarship and I left for college and I never looked back. So I know what it looks like, Regan, and it doesn't look like you."

"Jack. You did the best you could."

McCoy shook his head. "It wasn't enough."

"You left to save yourself. Sometimes that's the best we can do."

"I left because I would have killed the son-of-a-bitch if I'd stayed. That's the truth, Regan, even if I never admitted it to myself at the time."

"These terrible old men," Regan said softly, and McCoy swore softly to hear his own south-side rasp in her voice. "These terrible old men who shape our lives. Men we can't live up to and can't live down. You couldn't turn yourself into him? Maybe that's because you were stronger than he was."

_Of all the times for her to learn the tricks I_ _'_ _ve tried to teach her …_

"You couldn't tell me you were afraid you'd turned into your father because you were ashamed you hadn't turned into your father," Regan said.

"That's about the size of it," McCoy said. "Crazy, huh?"

"Makes perfect sense to me," Regan said.

Thinking she was being sarcastic, McCoy opened his mouth for a sharp retort, and then saw her eyes, steady and calm.

He imagined sitting at this bar with Claire, telling her what he had just told Regan. Claire had loved him. She would have been understanding. She would have been sympathetic.

But there was no way in the world he would have made perfect sense to her.

Claire had loved him for the man she believed he could be, the man he had tried to be for her. It was possible to imagine he might have succeeded. But she was gone, and the man she had loved was gone. And here he was, the man who had loved her and been changed by losing her. He wondered what Claire would have thought of Jack McCoy if she'd met him today, with all his dark corners, with the anger and the fear and all the rest, if she would still have seen the man she believed he could become.

He'd like to think she would have, but he couldn't be certain.

One thing was certain – he had never made perfect sense to her.

"Penny for them," Regan said, and he looked away from the past and met her gaze. Regan, who wasn't waiting for him to become anything. Regan, who knew all his dark places and didn't back away.

He leaned over and kissed her.

Her mouth opened against his without hesitation. She tasted of expensive French champagne and cheap coffee . She tasted of promises. McCoy braced himself against the bar to draw her closer, all lean limbs and muscle and _god,_ it was beyond time for him to get her clothes off and admire her rangy body with eyes and hands and all the rest of his body.

Regan leaned back from him a little, her hand still clutching his shirt, just over his heart. "Do you think maybe we've pushed Arthur far enough this week?" she whispered.

"Perhaps," McCoy conceded. "Are you going to tell me again that we need to be 'just friends'?"

"We're never going to be 'just friends'," Regan said, smiling, her eyes full of tears. "But we need to think about this. _I_ need to think. I need – I'm going to need to find another job."

He put his hand over hers where it rested on his chest. "I like working with you."

"I like working with you too, Jack," Regan said. "So what are we going to do?"

"Arthur doesn't need to know."

"That's unrealistic." She pulled her hand free from his and turned back toward the bar.

"Regan?"

"Did you tell Sally that Mr Schiff 'didn't need to know'?"

"I … I might have. Jesus, Regan, don't go and join the public defender's office! I like a good fight, but I prefer to stick to my own weight class."

"Then what? What happens now?"

The waiter signaled unobtrusively that their table was free. Jack nodded acknowledgment. "Now we have dinner. I recommend the spaghetti alla puttanesca —"

"Of course you do."

"And then …" He paused. "Then you go home. And I do."

"And tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow … is another day."

* * *

.oOo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've read this far, if I've amused and diverted you for a little while, please consider leaving a comment! Reader feedback is the only reward fanfic writers get.


End file.
